^^  --x^S^^^^-^^^^H^^^ 


£>,7  li^S"  ^  l-iiy/ia^s  S-Sr^  /'/'> 


/ 


NOTHING    TO    WEAR 
AND    OTHER    POEMS 


By 
WILLIAM  ALLEN  BUTLER 

A    NEW   EDITION 
FROM  NEW  PLATES 


NEW     YORK     AND     LONDON 

HARPER     &     BROTHERS     PUBLISHERS 
1899 


4d 


ifi^f 


Copyright,  1871,  by  William  Allen  Butlee. 
Copyright,  1S81,  1891,  1899,  by  HARrsK  &  Brothkb8. 

All  righia  rtaerved. 


TO 
THIS    VOLUME 

PUBLISHED  IN  THE   FIFTIETH  TEAR 
OF    OCR     WEDDED    LIFE 

10  Indcrtbed 


PEEFACE 


This  volume,  published  in  compliance  with  many 
friendly  requests  for  a  new  edition  of  my  poems, 
contains  selections  from  an  edition  published  in 
1871,  long  since  out  of  print,  with  other  poems  of 
more  recent  date.  The  fact  that  "  Nothing  to 
Wear,"  first  published  in  New  York  in  1857,  repro- 
duced in  a  multitude  of  forms  in  Great  Britain, 
and  translated  into  French  and  German,  still  holds 
a  place  in  public  favor,  has  prompted  me  to  give  it 
prominence  as  the  title  of  the  present  volume,  plac- 
iug  the  other  contents  in  a  subordinate  rank. 

As  my  ventures  in  versification  have  been  mainly 
by  way  of  recreation  during  a  long  and  laborious 
professional  life,  I  have  not  thouglit  it  worth  while, 
except  in  the  instance  of  the  volume  already  men- 
tioned, to  publish  them  in  any  collected  form  ;  but 
I  am  glad  to  believe  that  the  present  edition,  pre- 


PREFACE 

pared  in  the  evening  of  my  life^  may  be  the  means 
of  perpetuating  some  pleasant  associations  and 
memories.  This  is  especially  the  case  in  regard 
to  the  verses  for  the  children,  some  of  which,  in 
juvenile  magazines  and  school  readers,  have  at- 
tained a  popularity  which  may  be  a  justification 
for  placing  them  in  the  concluding  pages  of  this 
book. 

Wm.  Allen  Butler 

Round  Oak,  Yonkers,  N.  Y.,  1899 


CONTENTS 


Poems  of  the  City  :  page 

Nothing  To  Wear 3 

The  Sexton  and  tiiI':  Thermometek    ....  20 

Broadway 30 

The  Equestrian  Statue  of  Washington    .     .  33 

Two  Cities 35 

Poems  of  Travel  : 

The  Wanderer 43 

Notre  Dame  de  Rouen 45 

Vaucluse 48 

The  Old  Woman  op  Troyes 49 

The  Salle  Montesqdieu 53 

The  Torture-chamber  at  Ratisbon    ....  56 

Titian's  ' '  Assumption  " 60 

The  Incognita  of  Raphael 6:2 

The  Busts  of  Goethe  and  Schiller  ln  Wal- 

halla 65 

Work  and  Worship 69 

The  Inversnaid  Inn 73 

At  Richmond '^6 

V 


CONTENTS 

Poems  op  T-s.k\mj— Continued :  page 

The  Gakden  op  the  Gods 80 

A  Midnight  Sun  Episode 83 

"  All  's  Well  !" 87 

Oberammergau  : 

Oberammergau,  1890 91 

Miscellaneous  Poems  : 

The  Carnival  of  1848 Ill 

The  New  Argonauts 116 

The  Graveyard  at  West  Point 121 

F.  B.  C 125 

DoBBS  His  Ferry 128 

A  Golden  Wedding 141 

A  Silver  Wedding 145 

In  Memoriam.     T.  S.  K 150 

Columbus 152 

Old  and  New 158 

Our  Fifty-fipth 164 

Uhland,  with  Translations  : 

Uhland 169 

The  Beggar 172 

The  Shepherd 174 

The  Mournful  Tournament 176 

The  Nun 179 

The  Shepherd's  Sabbath  Song 181 

The  Landlady's  Daughter 182 

The  Wreath 184 

The  Minstrel's  Curse 186 

The  Three  Songs 192 

The  Knight  op  Saint  George 194 

vi 


CONTENTS 

FoK  THE  Children  :  page 

Sunbeam  and  Shadow 201 

"Somebody" 208 

Psyche 210 

Cornelia's  Reply 213 

Old  Pone 215 

Tom  Twist 218 

DwARB'  and  Giant 223 

Miss  Nobody's  Christmas  Dinner 226 

Buried  Cities 233 

Notes  to  "Obebammerqau,"  1890 235 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 


NOTHING    TO    WEAR 

Miss  Flora  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
Has  made  three  separate  journeys  to  Paris, 
And  her  father  assures  me,  each  time  she  was  there. 

That  she  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris 
(Not  the  lady  whose  name  is  so  famous  in  history. 
But  pLain  Mrs.  H.,  without  romance  or  mystery) 
Spent  six  consecutive  weeks,  without  stopping. 
In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping — 
Shopping  alone,  and  shopping  together. 
At  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather. 
For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman  can  put 
On  the  crown  of  her  head,  or  the  sole  of  her  foot. 
Or  wrap  round  her  shoulders,  or  fit  round  her  waist, 
Or  that  can  be  sewed  on,  or  pinned  on,  or  laced. 
Or  tied  on  with  a  string,  or  stitched  on  with  a  bow. 
In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below ; 
For  bonnets,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and  shawls  ; 
Dresses  for  breakfasts,  and  dinners,  and  balls ; 

3 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Dresses  to  sit  in,  and  stand  in,  and  walk  in  ; 
Dresses  to  dance  in,  and  flirt  in,  and  talk  in ; 
Dresses  in  which  to  do  nothing  at  all ; 
Dresses  for  "Winter,  Spring,  Summer,  and  Fall — 
All  of  them  different  in  color  and  shape. 
Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  velvet,  satin,  and  crape. 
Brocade  and  broadcloth,  and  other  material. 
Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethereal ; 
In  short,  for  all  things  that  could  ever  be  thought  of, 
Or  milliner,  modiste,  or  tradesman  be  bought  of. 

From  ten -thousand -franc  robes  to  tAventy-sous 
frills ; 
In  all  quarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every  store. 
While  M'Flimsey  in  vain  stormed,  scolded,  and 
swore. 

They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed  the  bills  ! 

The  last  trip,  their  goods  shipped  by  the  steamer 

Arcigo, 
Formed,   M'Flimsey   declares,    the    bulk    of    her 

cargo, 
Not  to  mention  a  quantity  kept  from  the  rest. 
Sufficient  to  fill  the  largest-sized  chest. 
Which  did  not  appear  on  the  ship's  manifest. 
But  for  which  the  ladies  themselves  manifested 
Such  particular  interest,  that  they  invested 
4 


NOTHING    TO    WEAR 

Their  own  proper  persons  in  layers  and  rows 
Of  muslins,  embroideries,  worked  under-clothes. 
Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  and   such  trifles  as 

those ; 
Then,   wrapped  in   great  shawls,   like   Circassian 

beauties. 
Gave  good-hye  to  the  ship,  and  go  hy  to  the  duties. 
Her  relations  at  home  all  marvelled,  no  doubt. 
Miss  Flora  had  grown  so  enormously  stout 
For  an  actual  belle  and  a  possible  bride  ; 
But  the  miracle   ceased  when  she  turned  inside 

out. 
And  the  truth  came  to  light,  and  the  dry-goods 

beside. 
Which,  in  spite  of  Collector  and  Custom -House 

sentry. 
Had  entered  the  port  without  any  entry. 


And  yet,  though  scarce  three  months  have  passed 

since  the  day 
This  merchandise  went,  on  twelve  carts,  up  Broad- 
way, 
This  same  Miss  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
The  last  time  we  met  was  in  utter  despair. 
Because  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  wear ! 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Nothing  to  wear  !    Now,  as  this  is  a  true  ditty, 
I  do  not  assert — this,  you  know,  is  between  ns — 
That  she's  in  a  state  of  absolute  nudity, 

Like  Powers'  Greek  Slave  or  the  Medici  Venus ; 

But  I  do  mean  to  say,  I  have  heard  her  declare, 

When  at  the  same  moment  she  had  on  a  dress 

Which  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  not  a  cent 

less. 
And  jewelry  worth   ten  times  more,  I  should 
guess. 
That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world  to 
wear  ! 

I  should  mention  just  here,  that  out  of  Miss  Flora's 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  adorers, 
I  had  just  been  selected  as  he  who  should  throw  all 
The  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gracious  bestowal 
On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  rejections. 
Of  those  fossil  remains  which  she  called  her  "af- 
fections," 
And  that  rather  decayed,  but  well-known  work  of 

art. 
Which  Miss  Flora  persisted  in  styling  her  "heart." 
So  we  were  engaged.    Our  troth  had  been  plighted, 
Not  by  moonbeam  or  starbeam,  by  fountain  or 
grove, 

6 


NOTHING    TO    WEAR 

But  in  a  front  parlor,  most  brilliantly  lighted, 

Beneath  the  gas-fixtures,  we  whispered  our  love. 
Without  any  romance,  or  raptures,  or  sighs, 
AVitliout  any  tears  in  Miss  Flora's  blue  eyes, 
Or  blushes,  or  transports,  or  such  silly  actions. 
It  was  one  of  the  quietest  business  transactions, 
With   a  very   small    sprinkling    of    sentiment,    if 

any. 
And  a  very  large  diamond  imported  by  Tiffany. 
On  her  virginal  lips  while  I  printed  a  kiss. 
She  exclaimed,  as  a  sort  of  parenthesis. 
And  by  way  of  putting  me  quite  at  my  ease, 
''You  know  I'm  to  polka  as  much  as  I  please. 
And  flirt  when  I  like— now,  stop,  don't  you  speak — 
And  you  must  not  come  here  more  than  twice  in 

the  week. 
Or  talk  to  me  either  at  party  or  ball. 
But  always  be  ready  to  come  when  I  call ; 
So  don't  prose  to  me  about  duty  and  stuff. 
If  we   don't   break   this   off,    there   will   be   time 

enough 
For  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  the  bargain  must  be 
That,  as  long  as  I  choose,  I  am  perfectly  free — 
For  this  is  a  kind  of  engagement,  you  see. 
Which   is   binding   on  you,  but  not   binding   on 

me." 

7 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Well,   having   thus   wooed    Miss    M'Flimsey   and 

gained  her. 
With  the  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops  that  con- 
tained her, 
I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  remainder 
At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 
To  appear  as  its  escort  by  day  and  by  night ; 
And  it  being  the  week  of  the  Stuckup's  grand 
ball— 
Their  cards  had  been  out  a  fortnight  or  so. 
And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tiptoe — 
I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call. 

And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 
I  found  her — as  ladies  are  apt  to  be  found. 
When  the  time  intervening  between  the  first  sound 
Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor's  entry  is  shorter 
Than  usual — I  found  ;  I  won't  say — I  caught  her. 
Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly  meaning 
To  see  if  perhaps  it  didn't  need  cleaning. 
She  turned  as  I  entered — "Why,  Harry,  you  sin- 
ner, 
I  thought  that  you  went  to  the  Flashers'  to  din- 
ner !" 
"So  I  did,"  I  replied,   "but  the  dinner  is  swal- 
lowed. 
And  digested,  I  trust,  for  'tis  now  nine  and  more, 
8 


NOTHING    TO    WEAR 

So,  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  I  followed 

Inclination,  which  led  me,  you  see,  to  your  door; 
And  now  will  your  ladyship  so  condescend 
As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 
Your  beauty,  and  graces,  and  presence  to  lend 
(All  of  which,  when  I  own,  I  hope  no  one  will  borrow) 
To  the  Stuckup's,  whose  party,  you  know,  is  to- 


morrow 


?" 


The  fair  Flora  looked  up,  with  a  pitiful  air. 
And  answered  quite  promptly,  "  Why,  Harry,  moii 

clier, 
I  should  like  above  all  things  to  go  with  you  there, 
But  really  and  truly — I've  nothing  to  wear." 
'■'  Nothing  to  wear !  go  just  as  you  are  ; 
Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and  you'll  be  by  far, 
I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  particular  star 

On  the  Stuckup  horizon — "     I  stopped,  for  her 
eye, 
Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of  flattery. 
Opened  on  me  at  once  a  most  terrible  battery 

Of  scorn  and  amazement.     She  made  no  reply. 
But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her  nose — 

That  pure  Grecian  feature — as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Kow  absurd  that  any  sane  man  should  suppose 
That  a  lady  would  go  to  a  ball  in  the  clothes. 

No  matter  how  fine,  that  she  wears  every  day  !" 
9 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

So  I  ventured  again  :  ''  Wear  your  crimson  bro- 
cade " — 
(Second  turn  up  of  nose)  —  "That's  too  dark  by  a 

shade." 
"Your  blue  silk"— '^ That's  too  heavy."    ''Your 

pink  "—"  That's  too  light." 
''Wear  tulle  over  satin  " — "I  can't  endure  white." 
"Your  rose-colored,  then,  the  best  of  the  batch" — 
"I  haven't  a  thread  of  point-lace  to  match." 
"Your  brown  moire  antique" — "Yes,   and  look 

like  a  Quaker." 
"  The  pearl-colored  " — "  I  would,  but  that  plaguy 

dress-maker 
Has  had  it  a  week."     "  Then  that  exquisite  lilac. 
In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  Shylock" — 
(Here  the  nose  took  again  the  same  elevation) — 
"  I  wouldn't  wear  that  for  the  whole  of  creation." 
"  Why  not  ?    It's  my  fancy,  there's  nothing  could 
strike  it 
As  more  comme  il  faut" — "Yes,  but,  dear  me, 
that  lean 
Sophronia  Stuckup  has  got  one  just  like  it. 

And  I  won't  appear  dressed  like  a  chit  of  sixteen." 
"  Then  that   splendid  purple,  that  sweet  Maza- 
rine; 
That  superb  point  d'aiguille,  that  imperial  green, 
10 


NOTHING    TO    WEAR 

That  zephyr-like  tarletan,  that  rich  grenadine"— 
"Not  one  of  all  which  is  fit  to  be  seen," 
Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  flushed. 
"  Then  wear,"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  which  quite 
crushed 
Opposition,  ''that  gorgeous  toilette  which  you 
sported 
In  Paris  last  spring,  at  the  grand  presentation. 
When  you  quite  turned  the  head  of  the  head  of  the 
nation, 
And  by  all  the  grand  court  were  so  very  much 

courted." 

The  end  of  the  nose  was  portentously  tipped  up, 

And  both  the  bright  eyes  shot  forth  indignation. 

As  she  burst  upon  me  with  the  fierce  exclamation, 

"I  have  worn  it  three  times,  at  the  least  calculation. 

And  that  and  most  of  my  dresses  are  ripped  up  !" 

Here  I  ripj^ed  out  something,  perhaps  rather  rash. 

Quite  innocent,  though  ;  but,  to  use  an  expression 

More  striking  than  classic,  it  ''settled  my  hash," 

And  proved  very  soon  the  last  act  of  our  session. 

"Fiddlesticks,  is  it,  sir?    I  wonder  the  ceiling 

Doesn't  fall  down  and  crush  you — you  men  have 

no  feeling ; 
You  selfish,  unnatural,  illiberal  creatures. 
Who  set  yourselves  up  as  patterns  and  preachers, 
11 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Yonr  silly  pretence — why,  what  a  mere  gness  it  is ! 
Pray,  what  do  you  know  of  a  woman's  necessities  ? 
I  have  told  you  and  shown  you  I've  nothing  to  wear. 
And  it's  perfectly  plain  you  not  only  don't  care. 
But  you  do  not  believe  me" — (here  the  nose  went 

still  higher) — 
"I  suppose,  if  you  dared,  you  would  call  me  a  liar. 
Our  engagement  is  ended,  sir — yes,  on  the  spot; 
You're  a  brute,  and  a  monster,  and — I  don't  know 

what." 
I  mildly  suggested  the  words  Hottentot, 
Pick-pocket,  and  cannibal,  Tartar,  and  thief. 
As  gentle  expletives  which  might  give  relief; 
But  this  only  proved  as  a  spark  to  the  powder. 
And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came  faster  and  louder; 
It  blew  and  it  rained,  thundered,  lightened,  and 

hailed 
Interjections,  verbs,  pronouns,  till  language  quite 

failed 
To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its  arrears 
Were  brought  up  all  at  once  by  a  torrent  of  tears, 
And  my  last  faint,  despairing  attempt  at  an  obs- 
Ervation  was  lost  in  a  tempest  of  sobs. 

Well,  I  felt  for  the  lady,  and  felt  for  my  hat,  too. 

Improvised  on  the  crown  of  the  latter  a  tattoo, 

12 


NOTHING    TO    WEAR 

111  lieu  of  expressing  the  feelings  which  lay 
Quite  too  deep  for  Avords,  as  Wordsworth  would  say; 
Then,  without  going  through  the  form  of  a  bow, 
Found  myself  in  the  entry — I  hardly  knew  how, 
On  door -step  and  sidewalk,  past  lamp -post  and 

square. 
At  home  and  up-stairs,  in  my  own  easy-chair ; 

Poked  my  feet  into  slippers,  my  fire  into  blaze. 
And  said  to  myself,  as  I  lit  my  cigar, 
"  Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of  the  Czar 

Of  the  Russias  to  boot,  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
On  the  whole,  do  you  think  he  would  have  much  to 

spare. 
If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing  to  wear  T' 

Since  that  night,  taking  pains  that  it  should  not  be 

bruited 
Abroad  in  society,  I've  instituted 
A  course  of  inquiry,  extensive  and  thorough. 
On  this  vital  subject,  and  find,  to  my  horror. 
That  the  fair  Flora's  case  is  by  no  means  surprising. 

But  that  there  exists  the  greatest  distress 
In  our  female  community,  solely  arising 

From  this  unsupplied  destitution  of  dress. 
Whose  unfortunate  victims  are  filling  the  air 
With  the  pitiful  wail  of  "Nothing  to  wear." 
13 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Kesearches  in  some  of  the  "  Upper  Ten "  districts 
Reveal  the  most  painful  and  startling  statistics, 
Of  which  let  me  mention  only  a  few : 
In  one  single  house,  on  the  Fifth  Avenue, 
Three  young  ladies  were  found,  all  below  twenty-two, 
Who  have  been  three  whole  weeks  without  any- 
thing new 
In  the  way  of  flounced  silks,  and  thus  left  in  the 

lurch 
Are  unable  to  go  to  ball,  concert,  or  church. 
In  another  large  mansion,  near  the  same  place. 
Was  found  a  deplorable,  heart-rending  case 
Of  entire  destitution  of  Brussels  point-lace. 
In  a  neighboring  block  there  was  found,  in  three 

calls, 
Total  want,  long  continued,  of  cameFs-hair  shawls ; 
And  a  suffering  family,  whose  case  exhibits 
The  most  pressing  need  of  real  ermine  tippets ; 
One  deserving  young  lady  almost  unable 
To  survive  for  the  want  of  a  new  Eussian  sable ; 
Still  another,  whose  tortures  have  been  most  terrific 
Ever  since  the  sad  loss  of  the  steamer  Pacific, 
In  which  were  engulfed,  not  friend  or  relation 
(For  whose  fate  she  perhaps  might  have  found 

consolation, 
Or  borne  it,  at  least,  with  serene  resignation), 
14 


NOTUING    TO    WEAR 

But  the  choicest  assortment  of  French  sleeves  and 

collars 
Ever  sent  out  from  Paris,  worth  thousands  of  dol- 
lars, 
And  all  as  to  style  most  recherche  and  rare. 
The  want  of  which  leaves  her  with  nothing  to  wear. 
And  renders  her  life  so  drear  and  dyspeptic 
That  she's  quite  a  recluse,  and  almost  a  sceptic, 
For  she  touchiugly  says  that  this  sort  of  grief 
Cannot  find  in  Eeligion  the  slightest  relief, 
And  Philosophy  has  not  a  maxim  to  spare 
For  the  victims  of  such  overwhelming  despair. 
But  the  saddest,  by  far,  of  all  these  sad  features 
Is  the  cruelty  practised  upon  the  poor  creatures 
By  husbands  and  fathers,  real  Bluebeards  and  Ti- 

mons, 
Who  resist  the  most  touching  appeals  made  for 

diamonds 
By  their  wives  and  their  daughters,  and  leave  them 

for  days 
Unsupplied  with  new  jewelry,  fans,  or  bouquets. 
Even  laugh  at  their  miseries  whenever  they  have  a 

chance, 
And  deride  their  demands  as  useless  extravagance. 
One  case  of  a  bride  was  brought  to  my  view. 
Too  sad  for  belief,  but,  alas !  'twas  too  true, 
15 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Whose  husband  refused,  as  savage  as  Charon, 
To  permit  her  to  take  more  than  ten  trunks  to 

Sharon. 
The  consequence  was,  that  when  she  got  there. 
At  the  end  of  three  weeks  she  had  nothing  to  wear. 
And  when  she  proposed  to  finish  the  season 
At  Newport,  the  monster  refused,  out  and  out. 
For  his  infamous  conduct  alleging  no  reason. 
Except  that  the  waters  were  good  for  his  gout; 
Such  treatment  as  this  was  too  shocking,  of  course. 
And  proceedings  are  now  going  on  for  divorce. 

But  why  harrow  the  feelings  by  lifting  the  curtain 
From  these  scenes  of  woe  ?    Enough,  it  is  certain, 
Has  here  been  disclosed  to  stir  up  the  pity 
Of  every  benevolent  heart  in  the  city. 
And  spur  up  Humanity  into  a  canter 
To  rush  and  relieve  these  sad  cases  instanter. 
Won't  somebody,  moved  by  this  touching  descrip- 
tion. 
Come  forward  to-morrow  and  head  a  subscription  ? 
Won't  some  kind  philanthropist,  seeing  that  aid  is 
So  needed  at  once  by  these  indigent  ladies, 
Take    charge    of   the   matter  ?      Or   won't   Peter 

Cooper 
The  corner-stone  lay  of  some  new  splendid  super- 
16 


NOTHING    TO    WEAR 

Sfcrncture,  like  tliat  wliich  to-day  links  his  name 
111  the  Union  unending  of  Honor  and  Fame, 
And  found  a  new  charity  just  for  the  care 
Of  these  unhappy  women  with  nothing  to  wear, 
Which,  in  view  of  the  cash  which  Avould  daily  be 

claimed, 
The  Laying-out  Hospital  well  might  be  named  ? 
Won't  StewartjOr  some  of  our  dry-goods  importers. 
Take  a  contract  for  clothing  our  wives  and  our 

daughters  ? 
Or,  to  furnish  the  cash  to  supi)ly  these  distresses. 
And  life's  pathway  strew  with  shawls,  collars,  and 

dresses, 
For   poor    womankind,   won't    some    venturesome 

lover 
A  new  California  somewhere  discover? 

0  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny  day 
Please  trundle  your  hoops  just  out  of  Broadway, 
From  its  whirl  and  its  bustle,  its  fashion  and  pride. 
And  the  temples  of  Trade  which  tower  on  each 

side, 
To  the  alleys  and  lanes,  where  Misfortune  and 

Guilt 
Their   children    have    gathered,   their    city   have 

built ; 
B  17 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Where  Hunger  and  Vice,  like  twin  beasts  of  prey, 

Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and  despair; 

Eaise  the  rich,  dainty  dress,  and  the  fine  broidered 

skirt, 
Pick  your  delicate  way  through  the  dampness  and 

dirt. 
Grope  through  the  dark  dens,  climb  the  rickety 

stair 
To  the  garret,  where  wretches,  the  young  and  the 

old. 
Half  starved  and  half  naked,  lie  crouched  from  the 

cold ; 
See  those  skeleton  limbs,  those  frost-bitten  feet, 
All   bleeding  and  bruised   by  the   stones   of   the 

street ; 
Hear  the  sharp  cry  of  childhood,  the  deep  groans 

that  swell 
From  the  poor  dying  creature  who  writhes  on  the 

floor ; 
Hear  the  curses  that  sound  like  the  echoes  of  Hell, 
As  you  sicken  and  shudder  and  fly  from  the 

door; 
Then  home  to  your  wardrobes,  and  say,  if   you 

dare — 
Spoiled  children  of  fashion  —  you've  nothing  to 

wear  ! 

18 


NOTHING    TO    WEAR 

Aud  0,  ir  perchance  there  should  be  a  sphere 
Where  all  is  made  right  which  so  puzzles  us  here. 
Where  the  glare  and  the  glitter  and  tinsel  of  Time 
Fade  and  die  in  the  light  of  that  region  sublime, 
AVhere  the  soul,  disenchanted  of  flesh  and  of  sense. 
Unscreened  by  its  trappings  and  shows  and  pre- 
tence. 
Must  be  clothed  for  the  life  and  the  service  above. 
With  purity,  truth,  faith,  meekness,  and  love, 
0  daughters  of  Earth  !  foolish  virgins,  beware  ! 
Lest  in   that   upper  realm  you  have  nothing  to 
wear  ! 

18S7 


THE    SEXTON    AND    THE    THEK- 
M  0  M  E  T  E  R 

A  BUILDING  there  is,  well  known,  I  conjecture, 
To  all  the  admirers  of  church  architecture. 
Flaunting  and  fine,  at  the  bend  of  Broadway, 
Cathedral-like,  gorgeous,  and  Gothic,  and  gay. 
Soaring  sublimely,  just  as  it  should, 
With  its  turrets  of  marble,  and  steeple  of  wood. 
And  windows  so  brilliant  and  polychromatic. 
Through   which    the    light   wanders   with    colors 

erratic — 
Now,  golden  and  red  on  the  cushions  reposes. 
Now,  yellow  and  green  on  parishioners'  noses ; 
While,  within  and  without,  the  whole  edifice  glit- 
ters 
With  grandeur  in  patches,  and  splendor  in  frit- 
ters ; 
With  its  parsonage  *'  fixed "  in  the   style  of  the 

Tudors, 
And,  by  way  of  example  to  all  rash  intruders, 
20 


THE    SEXTON   AND    THERMOMETER 

Its  solid  dead  wall,  built  up  at  great  labor 
To  cut  off  the  windows  cut  out  by  its  neighbor — 
An  apt  illustration,  and  always  in  sight, 
Of  the  way  that  the  Church  sometimes  shuts  out 
the  Light ! 

Now  it  chanced  at  the  time  of  the  present  re- 
lation. 
Not  a  century  back  from  this  generation. 
When,  just  as  in  these   days,  the  world  was  di- 
vided. 
And  some  people  this  way  and  that  way  decided. 
And  like  silly  questions  the  public  was  vexed  on. 
One  DiGGORY  Pink  of  this  church  was  the  sexton. 
None  of  your  sextons  grave,  gloomy,  and  gruff. 
Bell-ringers,  pew-openers,  takers  of  snuff. 

Dusters  of  cushions  and  sweepers  of  aisles, 
But  a  gentleman  sexton,  ready  enough 
For  bows  and  good  manners,  sweet  speeches  and 
smiles ; 
A  gentleman,  too,  of  such  versatility. 
In  his  vocation  of  so  much  agility. 
Blest  with  such  wit  and  uncommon  facility. 
That  his  sextonship  rose,  by  the  means   he   in- 
vented. 
To  a  post  of  importance  quite  unprecedented. 
21 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

No  mere  undertaker  was  he,  or  to  make 

The  statement  more  clear,  for  veracity's  sake, 

There  was  nothing  at  all  he  did  not  undertake ; 

Discharging  at  once  such  a  complex  variety 

Of  functions  pertaining  to  genteel  society, 

As  gave  him  with  every  one  great  notoriety  ; 

Blending  his  care  of  the  church  and  the  cloisters 

With  funerals,  fancy  balls,  suppers,  and  oysters, 

Dinners  for  aldermen,  parties  for  brides. 

And  a  hundred  and  fifty  arrangements  besides  ; 

Great  as  he  was  at  a  funeral,  greater 

As  master  of  feasts,  purveyor,  gustator, 

Little  less  than  the  host,  but  far  more  than  the 

waiter. 
Very  brisk  was  his  business,  because,  in  advance. 
Pink   was    sure   of    his    patron    whatever    might 

chance. 
If  the  turtle  he  served  agreed  with  him,  then 
At  the  next  entertainment  he  fed  him  again  ; 
If  it  killed  him.  Pink  grieved  at  the  sudden  re- 
versal. 
But  shifting  his  part,  with  a  rapid  rehearsal. 
With  all  that  was  richest  in  pall  and  in  plumes, 
Conveyed  him,  in  state,  to  the  grandest  of  tombs. 
Thus  whatever  befell  him,  gout,  fever,  or  cough, 
It  was  Pink,  in  reality,  carried  him  off ; 
22 


THE    SEXTON   AND    THERMOMETER 

The  magical  Pink,  as  well  skilled  in  adorning 
The  houses  of  feasting  as  houses  of  mourning, 
Eor  'twas  all  the  same  thing,  on  his  catholic  plan. 
If  he  laid  out  the  money,  or  laid  out  the  man. 
But  most  with  the  ladies  his  power  was  supreme. 
Of  disputing  his  edicts  nobody  would  dream, 
For  'twas  generally  known  that  Pink  kept  the  key 
Of  the  very  selectest  society ; 
Parvenus  bribed  him  to  get  on  his  list ; 
Woe  to  the  man  whom  his  fiat  dismissed  ! 
The  best  thing  he  could  do  was  to  cease  to  exist, 
And  retire  from  a  world  where  he  wouldn't   be 
missed. 

Thus,  plying  all  trades,  but  still  keeping  their  bal- 
ance 
By  his  quick,  ready  wit  and  pre-eminent  talents, 
His  life  might  present,  in  its  manifold  texture. 
An  emblem  quite  apt  of  the  church  architecture. 
Which  unites,  in  its  grouping  of  sculpture  and 

column, 
A  great  deal  that's  comic  with  much  that  is  solemn! 

One  Sunday,  Friend  Pink,  who  all  night  had  been 

kept 
At  a  ball  in  the  Avenue,  quite  overslept, 
23 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

And  though  to  the  church  instanter  he  rushed. 
His  breakfast  untasted,  his  beaver  unbrushed. 
He  reached  it  so  late  that  he  barely  had  time 
To  kindle  the  fires,  when  a  neighboring  chime 
(For  'tis  thus  that  all  church-bells  must  figure  in 

rhyme) 
Proclaimed  that   the  hour    for   the    service   was 

near ; 
And,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  though  sunny  and 

clear, 
'Twas  the  coldest  of  all  the  cold  days  in  the  year. 

Poor  Pink,  if  some  artist,  with  pencil  or  pen. 
Had  been  on  the  spot  to  sketch  him  just  then. 
As  bewilderment  drove  him  first  here  and  then 

there, 
From  chancel  and  transept  to  gallery  stair. 
Now  down  in  the  vaults,  and  now  out  in  the  air, 
Might  have  stood  as  a  model  of  Utter  Despair, 
Whose  crowning  expression  his  countenance  wore 
As  he  paused,  for  a  moment,  within  the  grand 

door. 
And  glanced  at  a  gentleman,  portly  and  neat. 
Advancing  quite  leisurely  up  from  Tenth  Street. 
"  Mr.  Foldrum  is  coming ;  oh  !  what  shall  I  do  ? 
He^s  got  a  Thermometer  hung  in  his  pew ! 
24 


THE    SEXTON   AND    THERMOMETER 

As  sure  as  it's  there,  and  the  mercury  in  it, 
He'll  find  what  the  temperature  is   in  a  minute  ; 
And  being  a  vestryman,  isn't  it  clear 
That  minute  will  cost  me  a  thousand  a  year  ?" 

But  luck,  luck,  wonderful  luck  I 

Which  never  deserts  men  of  genuine  pluck. 

No  matter  how  deep  in  the  mire  they  are  stuck. 

In  this  very  crisis  of  trouble  and  pain, 

With  a  brilliant  idea  illumined  his  brain ; 

Down  the  aisle,  like  a  cannon-ball,  Diggory  flew, 

Snatched  the  thermometer  out  of  the  pew, 

And  then  plunged  it,  bodily,  into  the  fire 

Of  the  nearest  furnace,  just  by  the  choir ; 

Soon  to  100  the  mercury  rose. 

And  Pink,  stealing  quietly  back  on  tiptoes. 

Hung  it  up  stealthily,  on  the  brass  nail. 

Just  as  Foldrum  was  entering,  under  full  sail. 

The  church  was  as  chilly  and  cold  and  cavernous 
As  the  regions  of  ice  round  the  shores  of  Avernus  ; 
Like  icebergs,  pilasters  and  columns  were  gleaming, 
While   pendants    and    mouldings    seemed    icicles 

streaming. 
Foldrum  shivered  all  over,  and  really  looked  blue, 
As  he  opened  the  door  and  went  into  his  pew, 
25 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Then  clapping  his  spectacles  firmly  his  nose  on. 
Took  down  the  thermometer,  surely  supposing 
The   glass   would   be   cracked   and   the   mercury 
frozen. 

No  such  thing  at  all ;  but,  surprising  to  view, 

The  mercury  stood  at  72  ! 

It  had  never  deceived  him,  that  great  regulator, 
Not  once  to  the  atmosphere  proved  itself  traitor ; 
Had  it  fallen  to  zero  on  the  equator. 

He  had  shivered  all  over  and  doubted  it  not ; 
Or  if,  upon  Greenland's  iciest  shore. 
It  had  happened  to  rise  to  80,  or  more. 

Had  thrown  off  his  bearskin  and  sworn  it  was 
hot. 
"^  Place  me,"  might  he  cry,  with  the  poet  of  old, 
"  In  the  hottest  of  heat  or  the  coldest  of  cold. 
On  Lybian  sands,  or  Siberian  barren  height. 
You  never  shall  shake  my  faith  in  my  Fahren- 
heit !" 

'Twas  charming  to  see,  then  (Pink  watched  him 

with  care). 
What  a  wonderful  change  came  over  his  air — 
How  he  rubbed  both  his  hands,  and  a  genial  glow 
Came  flooding  his  cheeks  like  a  sunbeam  on  snow  ; 
26 


THE    SEXTON   AND    THERMOMETER 

How  quickly  he  doffed  both  his  scarf  and  his  coat. 
Unbuttoned  his  waistcoat  down  from  the  throat, 
And  stifling  a  sort  of  shiver  spasmodic, 
With    assumptions    of    warmth,    very    clear    and 

methodic, 
And  with  all  sorts  of  genial  and  satisfied  motions, 
With  fervor  engaged  in  his  usual  devotions. 

Just  then  enter  Doldrum, 

Who  sits  behind  Foldrum, 
And  gauges  himself,  from  beginning  to  end 
Of  the  year,  by  his  old  thermometrical  friend. 
Well  knowing  that  he  takes  his  practical  cue 
From  the  mercury,  hanging  up  there  in  his  pew. 
And  can't  make  the  mistakes  that  some  people  do. 
So  off  goes  Ms  pilot-cloth,  spite  of  the  cold  or 
A  twinge  of  rheumatics  in  his  left  shoulder ; 
^Twas  freezing,  'twas  dreadful,  it  must  be  confessed, 
But  there  sat   Squire  Foldrum,  who  surely  knew 

best. 
With  his  overcoat  off  and  an  unbuttoned  vest ! 
What's  mercury  made  for,  except  by  its  ranges 
To  declare,  without  fail,  atmospherical  changes  ? 

At  the  door  the  friends  met.  "  Cold  in  church,  was 

it  not  ?" 
Says  Doldrum,     '^  Oh  no  !  on  the  contrary,  hot ; 
27 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Thermometer  70  ;  with  these  high  ceilings 

You  must  go  by  the  mercury — can't  trust  your 

feelings. 
Take  a  glass,  after  dinner,  of  Old  Bourbon  whis- 
key. 
Nothing  like    it  to    keep   the    blood    active   and 

frisky, 
If  you're  cold,  but  the  air  was  quite  spring-like  and 

mellow  ; 
Why,  Doldrum,  you're  growing  old  fast,  my  dear 

fellow  !" 
But  on  Tuesday  the  joke  was  all  over  the  town  ; 
Pink  enjoyed  it  so  much  that  he  noted  it  down, 
And,  thinking  it  shouldn't  be  laid  on  the  shelf. 
At  the  risk  of  his  place,  he  told  it  himself 
To  one  of  the  vestry,  to  use  at  discretion ; 
And   in  very  short   time  'twas  in  public  posses- 
sion. 
Foldrum  heard  of  it,  too  ;  saw  how  it  was  done. 
And  felt  that  he  owed  the  sexton  one. 
Next  Sunday  he  paid  him.     ^'Pink,"  said  he, 
"I  owe  you  a  dollar;  here,  take  your  fee." 
"  A  dollar,  sir  ?  no,  sir  ;  what  for,  if  you  please  ?" 
"  For  raismg  the  mercury  forty  degrees  ! 
Extra  service  like  this  deserves  extra  pay. 
Especially  done,  as  this  was,  on  Sunday. 
28 


THE    SEXTON   AND    THERMOMETER 

So  pocket  the  cash,  without  further  remark ; 
But,  Pink,  for  the  future,   just   miud  and  keep 

dark/' 
"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  sexton;  "I'm  not  a 

dull  scholar. 
So,  if  you  take  the  joke,  why,  I'll  take  the  dollar  I" 


BROADWAY 

On  this  day  of  brightest  dawning, 
Underneath  each  spreading  awning, 

Sheltered  from  the  sun's  fierce  ray. 
Come,  and  let  ns  saunter  gayly 
With  the  crowd  whose  footsteps,  daily. 

Wear  the  sidewalks  of  Broadway. 

Leave  the  proof-sheets  and  the  printer 
Till  the  duller  days  of  winter. 

Till  some  dark  December  day ; 
Better  than  your  lucubrations 
Are  the  vivid  inspirations 

You  can  gather  in  Broadway  ! 

Tell  me  not,  in  half-derision. 
Of  your  Boulevards  Parisian, 
With  their  brilliant  broad  paves, 
30 


BROADWAY 

Still  for  us  the  best  is  nearest. 
And  the  last  love  is  the  dearest. 
And  the  Queen  of  Streets— Broadway  I 


Here,  beneath  bewitching  bonnets, 
Sparkle  eyes  to  kindle  sonnets. 

Charms,  each  worth  a  lyric  lay; 
Ah !  what  bright,  untold  romances 
Linger  in  the  radiant  glances 

Of  the  beauties  of  Broadway ! 

All  the  fairer,  that  so  fleeting 
Is  the  momentary  meeting. 

That  our  footsteps  may  not  stay; 
While,  each  passing  form  replacing. 
Swift  the  waves  of  life  are  chasing 

Down  the  channels  of  Broadway ! 

Motley  as  the  masqueraders 
Are  the  jostling  promenaders. 

In  their  varied,  strange  display; 
Here  an  instant,  only,  blending, 
Whither  are  their  footsteps  tending 

As  they  hasten  through  Broadway  ? 
31 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Some  to  garrets  and  to  cellars. 
Crowded  with  nnhappy  dwellers ; 

Some  to  mansions,  rich  and  gay, 
"Where  the  evening's  mirth  and  pleasnre 
Shall  be  fuller,  in  their  measure. 

Than  the  turmoil  of  Broadway  ! 

Yet  were  once  our  mortal  vision 
Blest  with  quicker  intuition, 

We  should  shudder  with  dismay 
To  behold  what  shapes  are  haunting 
Some,  who  seem  most  gayly  flaunting, 

On  the  sidewalks  of  Broadway  ! 

For,  beside  the  beggar  cheerless. 
And  the  maiden  gay  and  fearless. 

And  the  old  man  worn  and  gray, 
Swift  and  viewless,  waiting  never. 
Still  the  Fates  are  gliding  ever. 

Stern  and  silent,  through  Broadway  ! 


THE     EQUESTKIAN     STATUE     OF 
WASHINGTON 

''Finis  coronal  optts." 

Well  done  !    The  statue,  on  its  base  of  granite, 
Stands  in  the  sunlight,  perfect  and  complete. 

And  like  a  visitor  from  some  strange  planet. 
Curbing  his  steed  beside  the  crowded  street, 

A  million  curious  eyes  already  scan  it. 
And,  with  delighted  gaze,  its  advent  greet. 

The  end  has  crowned  the  work;  the  high  endeavor. 
And  the  long  toil,  with  full  success  are  blest; 

And  while  the  city  stands,  henceforth,  forever. 
Firm  as  to-day  this  noble  form  shall  rest. 

Nor  shall  the  hand  of  Time  or  Violence  sever 
Its  strength  and  beauty  from  that  granite  crest. 

It  is  well  placed;  the  tide  of  life,  incessant. 
With  ceaseless  echoes,  like  the  mighty  voice 
c  33 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Of  many  waters,  sweeps  the  spacious  crescent. 
Where,  grand  and  calm,  above  the  stir  and  noise, 

A  fitting  type  of  duty  ever  present. 

It  keeps,  unmoved,  its  graceful  equipoise. 

Alike  through  storm  and  sunshine ;  when  the  torrid, 
Untempered  rays  of  summer  fiercely  smite. 

Or  the  first  snow-flakes  crown  the  ample  forehead, 
And  wrap  the  figure  in  their  robe  of  white. 

Or  wintry  tempests,  with  forebodings  horrid 
Of  distant  shipwreck,  fill  the  black  midnight. 

Be  thus  perpetual !  with  the  consecration 
Of  art,  and  memory,  and  hopes  that  warm 

With  future  glories  for  each  generation. 

Keep  still,  unchanged,  the  same  majestic  form. 

And, through  all  tempests  that  may  shake  the  nation. 
Still  sit  supremely,  and  survive  the  storm ! 


TWO    CITIES 


[This  poem  was  written  at  the  time  when  the  exposure  of  the  corriiption 
of  the  so-called  "Tweed  Ring"  in  New  York  was  followed  by  the  great 
Are  in  Chicago,  1871.] 


Girt  with  the  river's  silver  zone>. 

Her  feet  the  ocean  woos  and  clasps, 
An  empress  on  her  island  throne. 

The  crown  she  wears,  the  sceptre  grasps. 

The  light  that  floods  her  face  is  shed 
On  countless  roofs  and  thronging  spires  ; 

The  clond-wreath,  hovering  overhead. 
Is  woven  from  her  ceaseless  fires. 

Her  lap  with  wealth  the  wide  Avorld  fills. 
O'er  the  wide  world  her  wealth  she  casts 

The  forests  of  a  thousand  hills 

Have  grown  to  shape  her  clustered  masts. 
35 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

With  boundless  life  her  senses  thrill. 
It  throbs  through  her  resounding  streets 

A  mighty  nation's  tireless  will 
In  all  her  million  pulses  beats. 

But  now,  heart-sick,  sore  tried,  and  faint. 
Upon  her  cheek  the  blush  of  shame. 

She  wears,  within,  the  leprous  taint 
That  blights  and  blasts  her  civic  fame. 

Yet,  with  firm  hand,  aside  she  tears 
The  folds  of  her  imperial  robe. 

And,  fearless,  in  the  sunlight,  dares 
The  festering  sore  to  search  and  probe. 

Plunge  deeper  yet  the  cleansing  knife. 
The  heart  still  pours  its  vital  flood. 

The  canker  has  not  touched  the  life. 
The  poison  is  not  in  the  blood ! 

II 

Some  swift  enchantment  surely  fed 
Her  virgin  grace,  her  giant  might. 

As  on  her  upward  way  she  sped, 

With  girded  loins  and  footsteps  light; 
36 


TWO    CITIES 

In  living  lines,  her  strange,  new  name 
Carved  on  the  inland  ocean's  brim, 

And  with  her  lofty  beacon  flame 
Fringed  the  broad  prairie's  verdant  rim. 

Past  lakes  and  forests,  hills  and  plains. 
She  pushed  her  iron  pathways  through, 

Along  whose  tracks  the  freighted  trains, 
Like  fire-winged  serpents,  flashed  and  flew. 


With  the  heaped  grain  her  rafters  bent, 
The  native  sheaf  her  golden  crest. 

And  through  her  open  gates  she  sent 
The  garnered  harvests  of  the  West. 

Who  now  shall  blame  the  glow  of  pride 
That  kindled  on  her  fevered  face, 

Kestless  with  thought  and  eager-eyed. 
Fit  type  of  our  impetuous  race  ? 

To-night  her  widowed  watch  she  keeps  ; 

In  sackcloth,  by  a  funeral  pyre. 
She  sits  beside  the  shapeless  heaps 

Where  swept  the  wind-tossed  waves  of  fire. 
37 


POEMS    OF    THE    CITY 

Not  lifeless  yet,  though  maimed  and  scarred ; 

The  gulf  of  flame  is  not  her  grave ; 
Above  these  ruins,  black  and  charred. 

Once  more  the  enchanter's  wand  shall  wave. 


The  magic  of  the  fearless  will 

That  wrought  and  won,  in  earlier  years. 
Still  weds  to  all  her  strength  and  skill 

The  patience  of  the  pioneers. 

While  from  all  hearts  and  hands  and  homes, 
From  kindred  hearths,  from  alien  shores. 

One  world-wide  benediction  comes. 
One  tidal  wave  of  pity  pours ; 

Still,  as  of  old,  the  furnace  proves 
The  path  divinest  love  has  trod ; 

Still,  in  the  midst,  a  presence  moves 
Whose  form  is  like  the  Son  of  God  ! 


So  far  apart,  yet  side  by  side  ; 

Her  brand  of  fire,  our  badge  of  shame. 
Write  the  same  doom  of  human  pride. 

Their  call  to  duty  is  the  same. 
38 


TWO    CITIES 

Though  deep  the  vengeful  firebolt  cleft, 
And  deep  the  foul  corruption's  stain, 

Courage  and  hope  and  faith  are  left. 
Manhood  and  truth  and  right  remain. 

The  skies  are  clear,  the  fresh  winds  blow, 
With  trumpet  calls  the  air  is  filled ; 

Sweep  off  the  wrecks,  and  far  below, 
Upon  the  old  foundations,  build  ! 

October,  1871. 


POEMS  OF   TRAVEL 


THE   WANDEEER 

0  RARE  delight  of  seeing, 

0  joy  unchecked  of  being 
Abroad  and  free,  in  this  wide  world  of  onrs  ! 

Such  pleasure  the  birds  have. 

Winging  o'er  wood  and  wave. 
O'er  meadows  bright  with  dew,  bright  with  perpet- 
ual flowers. 

Still  fares  the  wanderer  forth. 
And  still  the  exhaustless  Earth 

With  all  her  treasures  greets  her  wayward  child  ; 
For  him,  on  all  her  shores. 
She  spreads  her  countless  stores. 

In  sunlit  beauty  strewn,  or  solemn  grandeur  piled. 

The  plain  at  early  light ; 
At  noon,  the  mountain  height ; 
At  eve,  the  valley,  with  its  shadows  deep ; 
43 


POEMS    OF   TRAVEL 

At  night,  the  cataract, 
Or  ocean's  bonndless  tract, 
With  ceaseless  rush  of  waves,  or  mnrmurs  soft  as 
sleep. 

To-day,  the  crowded  mart. 

The  sacred  shrines  of  art. 
The  domes  of  empire,  the  cathedral  vast ; 

Tomorrow,  the  wild  woods. 

Or  desert  solitudes. 
With  shattered  temples  strewn  and  fragments  of 
the  past. 

Tempt  not  ray  feet  to  stay ; 

Along  the  upward  way. 
Across  the  earth,  across  the  sparkling  sea. 

Beyond  the  distant  isles. 

The  far  horizon  smiles. 
And  where  its  voices  call,  thither  my  steps  must 
be! 


NOTRE    DAME    DE    ROUEN 


[The  svmbolism  of  mediaeval  art  is  well  illustrated  by  M.  Michelet  in  his 
HUtory  of  France,  in  the  chapter  entitled  "  The  Passion  a  Principle  of 
Art  in  the  Middle  Ages."] 


Here,  as  the  vesper  chant 
Sinks  to  its  close. 
While  not  a  murmur 
Breaks  the  repose. 

In  silence  I  ponder. 

Musing  alone. 
The  Church's  deep  mystery. 

Sculptured  in  stone. 

In  the  solemn  cathedral, 

Now  as  of  old. 
The  Passion  of  Calvary 

Still  we  behold. 
45 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

The  Cross  and  the  Crucified, 

Yes,  it  is  He, 
The  suffering  Saviour, 

Nailed  to  the  tree! 


As  the  choir  from  the  transept 

Bends  to  the  West, 
So  His  head  in  the  agony 

Drooped  on  His  breast. 

In  the  stains  of  the  windows. 

Purple  and  red, 
Streams  the  blood  which  for  sinners 

Freely  was  shed. 

Each  stone  is  a  symbol. 

Graven  and  scarred ; 
So  with  keenest  anguish 

His  form  was  marred. 

Yet  in  all  shapes  of  beauty 

Wondrously  wrought, 
So  the  shame  and  the  agony 

Our  healing  brought ! 
46 


NOTRE    DAME    DE    ROUEN 

Yonder  a  penitent, 

Burdened  within, 
Kneels  on  the  altar  steps. 

Sighing  for  sin. 

So  the  dying  thief  prayed. 

By  His  pierced  side  ; 
''In  Thy  kingdom  remember  me," 

Fainting,  he  cried. 

The  crypt  lies  beneath  us  ; 

There,  in  the  gloom. 
Sleeps  the  buried  Redeemer, 

In  Joseph's  tomb. 

The  spire  springs  toward  heaven. 

Where  angels  sing; 
It  is  Jesus  ascending, 

Victor  and  King! 


VAUCLUSE 

Less  becanse  Petrarch  and  his  Mnse  have  made 
These  hills  and  streams  immortal  as  his  fame, 
Linked  in  melodious  verse  with  Laura's  name, 

Than  for  thy  sake,  0  Nature  !  have  I  strayed 

To  this  wild  region.     In  the  rocky  glade. 
Deep   at    the    mountain's   base,   the    fountains 

keep 
Their  ceaseless  gushing,  till  the  waters  leap 

A  mighty  torrent  from  the  endless  shade  ; 
A  moment  linger  there  in  glassy  rest, 
Break  on  the  craggy  steep  with  foaming  crest. 

Then    thunder    through    the    chasm,    swift    and 
strong ! 
So  burst  the  Poet's  passion  from  his  breast, 

Noiseless  and  deep  and  pure,  to  flood  erelong 

The  listening  tracts  of  Time  with  ceaseless  tides  of 
song ! 


THE    OLD   WOMAN    OF    TROYES 

She  is  an  old  woman,  certainly  one 
Of  the  most  remarkable  under  the  sun. 
Not  even  excepting  the  old  woman  who 
Lived  very  retired  in  the  heel  of  a  shoe, 

And  was  troubled  with  troublesome  boys ; 
The  very  quintessence  of  spirit  and  strength. 
Corked  down  in  a  body  not  four  feet  in  length. 
And  perhaps  I  should  add,  the  very  personi- 
Fication  of  everything  skinny  and  bony. 

Is  this  Old  Woman  of  Troyes  ! 

As  soon  as  the  diligence,  clatter,  and  clang, 
Gets  into  the  square,  and  pulls  up  with  a  bang. 
Probably  waking  up  half  of  the  people, 
And  shaking  the  town   from  the  stones  to  the 

steeple. 
With  a  terrible  racket  and  noise  ; 
Oat  of  Le  Grand  Mulet  (mentioned  by  Murray 
As  "  good,  clean,  and  cheap ""),  in  all  sorts  of  a 

hurry, 
D  49 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

With  a  light  in  her  hand — of  conrse  a  rush  light — 
She  comes  with  a  rush,  in  the  depth  of  the  night. 
This  queer  Old  Woman  of  Troyes  ! 

She  unloads  in  a  trice,  I  really  can't  state 
Exactly  the  number  of  mvt., 
From  the  top  of  the  diligence  down  to  the  flags ; 
While  as  for  such  matters  as  baskets  and  bags. 

They're  nothing  but  trifles  and  toys ; 
Around  and  around  the  old  woman  scampers. 
Amongst  packages,  boxes,  and  barrels,  and  ham- 
pers ; 
A  bale  of  packed  cotton,  or  load  of  pressed  hay, 
Would  be  nothing  at  all,  I'll  venture  to  say, 

To  this  Old  Woman  of  Troyes  ! 

While  we  are  looking,  she's  gone  for  a  minute, 
Flies  to  the  court-yard,  and  disappears  in  it. 
But  only,  it  seems,  to  take  a  fresh  start. 
For  out  of  the  gate  with  a  monster  hand-cart. 

Like  a  squadron  of  horse  she  deploys ; 
Then  into  it  piles  up  trunks,  boxes,  and  chests. 
As  a  tailor  would  pile  up  trousers  and  vests. 
Hops  into  the  shafts  like  a  twelve-pounder  shot, 
And  off  through  the  streets,  at  a  rousing  round  trot, 

Goes  this  Old  Woman  of  Troyes  ! 
50 


THE   OLD   WOMAN   OF    TROYES 

Now,  if  Hugo  or  Scribe  had  been  in  the  coupe, 
Or  Janin  or  Sue,  it's  easy  to  say. 
That,  besides  with  the  hand-cart  this  very  long  run. 
In  a  novel  or  play  she  might  have  had  one, 

And  made  a  prodigious  great  noise  ; 
Or  in  England,  that  country  of  guilds  and  of  crafts. 
She'd  surely  be  christened  the  Countess  of  Shafts, 
Leaving  the  iuri/  out  of  the  word, 
Which  would  make  it  too  long,  by  more  than  a  third, 

For  this  Old  Woman  of  Troyes  ! 

Now,  ye  mothers  all  over  the  world  attend. 
And  I'll  give  you  the  moral  that  comes  at  the  end  ; 
If  you  have  a  large  family,  in  a  long  series 
Of  Peggies,  and  Sallies,  and  Annas,  and  Maries ; 

Without  wishing  your  girls  had  been  boys, 
Don't  make  of  these  Peggies,  or  Annas,  or  Maries, 
Hot-house  camellias  or  gilt-cage  canaries, 
To  break  other  people's  and  then  their  own  hearts, 
But  teach  them  the  useful,  industrial  arts 

Of  this  Old  Woman  of  Troyes  ! 


THE    SALLE    MONTESQUIEU 

A  PARISIAN   REMINISCENCE 

From  the  doors  of  the  Trois  Freres  Proven^aux, 

Eich  realm,  where  the  code  is  the  Carte, 
And  the  cooks  are  the  monarchs  supreme. 

And  the  dishes  the  triumphs  of  art, 
I  sauntered,  digestively  slow. 

Through  the  lines  of  the  dazzling  Arcade, 
And  forth  to  the  Rue  de  Valois, 

And  the  gloom  of  its  parvenu  shade ; 
Thence  on,  in  the  dusk  of  the  night. 

Through  quartier,  passage,  and  rue. 
Till  I  chanced  where  the  gas-lamps  blazed  bright. 

In  front  of  the  Salle  Montesquieu! 

The  facade  loomed  large  in  the  dark. 
The  doors  opened  wide  on  the  hall. 

And  forth,  from  the  merry  within. 
To  the  street  came  the  sound  of  the  ball ; 
52 


THE    SALLE    MONTESQUIEU 

The  jeune  gens  were  flocking  in  crowds, 

With  each  the  grisette  of  his  taste. 
The  knights  of  the  Joinville  cravat. 

And  the  dames  of  the  miniature  waist ; 
I  followed  their  footsteps,  delighted, 

And  paid  at  the  door  my  ten  sons, 
As  set  forth  in  the  bill  that  invited 

**A11  the  world  to  the  Salle  Montesquieu!" 

The  blaze  from  the  chandelier  poured 

On  the  crowd  as  they  wandered  at  will. 
Now,  thronged  in  the  gay  promenade. 

And  now,  in  the  mazy  quadrille ; 
In  full  flourish  the  orchestra  played. 

As  scorning  a  moment's  repose. 
Incessant  the  scrape  of  the  fiddles. 

Tremendous  the  crash  at  the  close  ! 
The  dancers  kept  up  with  its  notes. 

Such  contortions  Saint  Vitus  ne'er  knew. 
As  astonished  my  wondering  eyes 

On  the  floor  of  the  Salle  Montesquieu! 

How  bright  were  those  beaming  black  eyes, 
Those  smiles  and  those  dimples  how  sweet ! 

How  the  roses  bloomed  fair  on  each  cheek, 
And  the  ringlets  waved  wild  in  the  heat ! 
53 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

What  odds  if  the  color  was  rouge, 

What  odds  if  the  tresses  were  false. 
As  they  gleamed  in  the  polka's  gay  maze. 

Or  whirled  in  the  magical  waltz  ? 
Farewell  to  the  circles  refined. 

Where  beauty  is  tiresome  and  trne. 
And  hail  to  the  flashier  charms 

Of  the  belles  of  the  8aUe  3fontesquieu ! 

Alas  for  the  faded  passees  ! 

On  back  benches  unnoticed  they  sit, 
While  before  them  the  belles  of  to-day 

In  the  pride  of  their  merriment  flit ; 
Alas  for  the  charms  that  have  fled. 

For  the  wrinkles  that  show  in  their  place. 
For  the  voice  that  has  ceased  to  allure. 

And  the  smile  that  has  changed  to  grimace  ! 
In  vain  are  pomatum  and  paint 

The  graces  of  youth  to  renew, 
'Tis  the  new  generation  that  reigns 

To-night  in  the  Salle  Montesquieu  ! 

'Tis  la  jeune  France  that  flourishes  here. 
She  has  found  the  arcanum  at  last. 

As  forlorn  as  the  faded  coquette. 

In  her  eyes  are  the  forms  of  the  Past ; 
54 


THE    SALLE    MONTESQUIEU 

Keligion  is  tiresome  and  old. 

The  day  of  morality's  done, 
A  has  with  the  troublesome  prnde. 

And  vive  the  bold,  witty  Lionne ! 
What's  liberty  worth  with  restrictions  ? 

From  the  tricolor  banish  the  bine ; 
The  refuge  of  Freedom  is  France, 

And  her  shrine  is  the  Salle  Montesquieu  ! 


THE    TORTUKE-CHAMBER     AT 
RATISBON 

Down"  the  broad,  imperial  Danube, 
As  its  wandering  waters  gnide. 

Past  the  mountains  and  the  meadows. 
Winding  with  the  stream,  we  glide. 

Ratisbon  we  leave  behind  us. 

Where  the  spires  and  gables  throng. 

And  the  huge  cathedral  rises. 
Like  a  fortress,  vast  and  strong. 

Close  beside  it  stands  the  Town  Hall, 
With  its  massive  tower,  alone. 

Brooding  o'er  the  dismal  secret. 
Hidden  in  its  heart  of  stone. 

There,  beneath  the  old  foundations. 
Lay  the  prisons  of  the  state. 

Like  the  last  abodes  of  vengeance, 
In  the  fabled  realms  of  Fate. 
56 


TORTURE-CHAMBER    AT    RATISBON 

And  the  tides  of  life  above  tliem 

Drifted  ever,  near  and  wide, 
As  at  Venice,  round  the  prisons, 

Sweeps  the  sea's  incessant  tide. 


Never,  like  the  far-off  dashing. 
Or  the  nearer  rush  of  waves. 

Came  the  tread  or  murmur  downward. 
To  those  dim,  unechoing  caves. 

There  the  dungeon  clasped  its  victim, 
And  a  stupor  chained  his  breath. 

Till  the  Torture  woke  his  senses. 
With  a  sharper  touch  than  Death. 

Now,  through  all  the  vacant  silence, 
Reign  the  darkness  and  the  damp, 

Broken  only  when  the  traveller 
Gropes  his  way,  with  guide  and  lamp. 

Peering  where,  all  black  and  shattered, 
Eaten  with  the  rust  of  Time, 

Lie  the  fearful  signs  and  tokens 
Of  an  age  when  Law  was  Crime. 
57 


POEMS    OF   TRAVEL 

Then  the  guide,  with  grim  precision, 
Tells  the  dismal  tale  once  more. 

Tells  to  living  men,  the  tortures 
Living  men  have  borne  before. 


As  he  speaks,  the  death-cold  cavern 
With  a  sudden  life-gush  warms. 

And,  once  more,  the  Torture-Chamber, 
With  its  murderous  tenants  swarms. 

Yonder,  through  the  narrow  archway. 
Comes  the  culprit  in  the  gloom. 

Falters  on  the  fatal  threshold. 
Totters  to  the  bloody  doom. 

Here  the  executioner,  lurking, 

Waits,  with  brutal  thirst,  his  hour. 

Tool  of  bloodier  men  and  bolder. 
Drunken  with  the  dregs  of  power. 

There  the  careful  leech  sits  patient. 
Watching  face,  and  hue,  and  breath. 

Weighing  life's  fast-ebbing  pulses 
With  the  heavier  chance  of  death. 
58 


TORTURE-CHAMBER    AT    RATISBON 

Eking  out  the  little  remnant. 

Lest  the  victim  die  too  soon. 
And  the  torture  of  the  morning 

Spare  the  torture  of  the  noon. 

Here,  behind  the  heavy  grating, 

Sits  the  scribe,  with  pen  and  scroll. 

Waiting  till  the  giant  terror 
Bursts  the  secrets  of  the  soul ; 

Till  the  fearful  tale  of  treason 
From  the  shrieking  lips  is  Avrung, 

Or  the  final,  false  confession 
Quivers  from  the  trembling  tongue! 


But  the  gray  old  tower  is  fading. 
Fades,  in  sunshine,  from  the  eye. 

Like  some  bird  whose  distant  pinion 
Dimly  blots  the  morning  sky. 

So  the  ancient  gloom  and  terror 

Of  the  ages  fade  away. 
In  the  sunlight  of  the  present. 

Of  our  better,  purer  day  ! 
59 


TITIAN'S    "ASSUMPTION" 

BuKST  is  the  iron  gate  ! 

And,  from  the  night  of  fate. 
Oat  of  the  darkness  and  the  gloom  abhorred ; 

Amidst  the  choral  hymn. 

With  cloud  and  cherubim. 
The  Virgin  leaves  the  tomb — arisen  like  her  Lord  I 

Free  in  the  heavens  she  soars. 

While  the  clear  radiance  pours. 
Like  a  vast  glory,  round  her  upward  face; 

And  higher  still,  and  higher, 

With  the  angelic  choir. 
The  soul  by  grace  regained,  regains  the  realms  of 
grace. 

In  mortal  shape !  and  yet, 
Upon  her  brow  is  set 
The  new  celestial  glory,  like  a  crown ; 
60 


TITIAN'S    "ASSUMPTION" 

Her  eyes  anticipate 
The  bright  eternal  state  ; 
Her  arms  to  heaven  extend;  to  her  the  heavens 
reach  down ! 

We,  with  the  saints  beneath, 

Half  lose  our  mortal  breath, 
With  sense  and  soul  still  following  where  she  flies ; 

They,  rapt  into  the  light 

Of  the  miraculous  sight — 
We,  of  the  wondrous  art  that  gives  it  to  our  eyes  ! 


THE    INCOGNITA    OF    RAPHAEL 

Long  has  the  summer  sunlight  shone 
On  the  fair  form,  the  quaint  costume ; 

Yet,  nameless  still,  she  sits,  unknown, 
A  lady  in  her  youthful  bloom. 

Fairer  for  this !  no  shadows  cast 
Their  blight  upon  her  perfect  lot, 

Whate'er  her  future  or  her  past. 
In  this  bright  moment  matters  not. 

No  record  of  her  high  descent 

There  needs,  nor  memory  of  her  name  ; 

Enough  that  Eaphael's  colors  blent 
To  give  her  features  deathless  fame ! 

'Twas  his  anointing  hand  that  set 
The  crown  of  beauty  on  her  brow ; 

Still  lives  its  early  radiance  yet. 
As  at  the  earliest,  even  now. 
63 


THE    INCOGNITA    OF    RAPHAEL 

'Tis  not  the  ecstasy  that  glows 
In  all  the  rapt  Cecilia's  grace ; 

Nor  yet  the  holy,  calm  repose 
He  painted  on  the  Virgin's  face. 


Less  of  the  heavens,  and  more  of  earth. 
There  lurk  within  these  earnest  eyes. 

The  passions  that  have  had  their  birth 
And  grown  beneath  Italian  skies. 

What  mortal  thoughts,  and  cares,  and  dreams. 
What  hopes,  and  fears,  and  longings  rest 

Where  falls  the  folded  veil,  or  gleams 
The  golden  necklace  on  her  breast ! 

What  mockery  of  the  painted  glow 
May  shade  the  secret  soul  within ; 

What  griefs  from  passion's  overflow. 
What  shame  that  follows  after  sin ! 

Yet  calm  as  heaven's  serenest  deeps 
Are  those  pure  eyes,  those  glances  pure; 

And  queenly  is  the  state  she  keeps. 
In  beauty's  lofty  trust  secure. 
63 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

And  who  has  strayed,  by  happy  chance, 
Through  all  those  grand  and  pictured  halls, 

Nor  felt  the  magic  of  her  glance. 
As  when  a  voice  of  music  calls  ? 


Not  soon  shall  I  forget  the  day, 

Sweet  day,  in  spring's  unclouded  time. 

While  on  the  glowing  canvas  lay 
The  light  of  that  delicious  clime ; 

I  marked  the  matchless  colors  wreathed 
On  the  fair  brow,  the  peerless  cheek ; 

The  lips,  I  fancied,  almost  breathed 
The  blessings  that  they  could  not  speak. 

Fair  were  the  eyes  with  mine  that  bent 
Upon  the  picture  their  mild  gaze. 

And  dear  the  voice  that  gave  consent 
To  all  the  utterance  of  my  praise. 

0  fit  companionship  of  thought, 
0  happy  memories,  shrined  apart ; 

The  rapture  that  the  painter  wrought, 
The  kindred  rapture  of  the  heart ! 
64 


THE    BUSTS    OF    GOETHE    AND 
SCHILLER    IN    WALHALLA 

This  is  Goethe,  with  a  forehead 
Like  the  fabled  front  of  Jove ; 

In  its  massive  lines  the  tokens 
More  of  majesty  than  love. 

This  is  Schiller,  in  whose  features. 
With  their  passionate  calm  regard. 

We  behold  the  true  ideal 
Of  the  high  heroic  bard, 

Whom  the  inward  world  of  feeling 
And  the  outward  world  of  sense 

To  the  endless  labor  summon, 
And  the  endless  recompense. 

These  are  they,  sublime  and  silent. 
From  whose  living  lips  have  rung 
Words  to  be  remembered  ever 
In  the  noble  German  tongue  ; 
E  65 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

Thoughts  whose  inspiration,  kindling 

Into  loftiest  speech  or  song, 
Still  through  all  the  listening  ages 

Pours  its  torrent  swift  and  strong. 

As  to-day  in  sculptured  marble 

Side  by  side  the  poets  stand. 
So  they  stood  in  life's  great  struggle. 

Side  by  side  and  hand  to  hand. 

In  the  ancient  German  city. 

Dowered  with  many  a  deathless  name. 
Where  they  dwelt  and  toiled  together, 

Sharing  each  the  other's  fame. 

One  till  evening's  lengthening  shadows 
Gently  stilled  his  faltering  lips. 

But  the  other's  sun  at  noonday 
Shronded  in  a  swift  eclipse. 

There  their  names  are  household  treasures, 
And  the  simplest  child  you  meet 

Guides  you  where  the  house  of  Goethe 
Fronts  upon  the  quiet  street ; 
66 


BUSTS    OF    GOETHE    AND    SCHILLER 

And,  hard  by,  the  modest  mansion 
Where  fall  many  a  heart  has  felt 

Memories  uncounted  clustering 
Eound  the  words,  "Here  Schiller  dwelt.' 


In  the  churchyard  both  are  buried. 
Straight  beyond  the  narrow  gate, 

In  the  mausoleum  sleeping, 
With  Duke  Charles,  in  sculptured  state. 

For  the  monarch  loved   the  poets. 
Called  them  to  him  from  afar. 

Wooed  them  near  his  court  to  linger, 
And  the  planets  sought  the  star. 

He,  his  larger  gifts  of  fortune 
With  their  larger  fame  to  blend. 

Living,  counted  it  an  honor 
That  they  named  him  as  their  friend; 

Dreading  to  be  all-forgotten. 
Still  their  greatness  to  divide. 

Dying,  prayed  to  have  his  poets 
Buried  one  on  either  side. 
67 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

But  this  suited  not  the  gold-laced 

Ushers  of  the  royal  tomb. 
Where  the  princely  house  of  Weimar 

Slumbered  in  majestic  gloom. 

So  they  ranged  the  coffins  justly, 
Each  with  fitting  rank  and  stamp. 

And  with  shows  of  court  precedence 
Mocked  the  grave's  sepulchral  damp. 

Fitly  now  the  clownish  sexton 
Narrow  courtier-rules  rebukes  ; 

First  he  shows  the  grave  of  Goethe, 
Schiller's  then,  and  last — the  Duke's. 


Vainly  'midst  these  truthful  shadows  ' 
Pride  would  flaunt  her  painted  wing  ; 

Here  the  monarch  waits  in  silence. 
And  the  poet  is  the  king  ! 


WORK   AND  WORSHIP 

A   LEGEND   OF  THE   DANUBE 

"Xaborare  est  orare." — St.  AuGUSTirfE. 

Charlemagne,  the  mighty  monarch, 
As  through  Metten  wood  he  strayed, 

Found  the  holy  hermit,  Hutto, 
Toiling  in  the  forest  glade. 

In  his  hand  the  woodman's  hatchet, 
By  his  side  the  knife  and  twine. 

There  he  cut  and  bound  the  fagots 
From  the  gnarled  and  stunted  pine. 

Well  the  monarch  knew  the  hermit 
For  his  pious  works  and  cares. 

And  the  wonders  which  had  followed 
From  his  vigils,  fasts,  and  prayers. 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

Much  he  marvelled  now  to  see  him 
Toiling  thus,  with  axe  and  cord  ; 

And  he  cried  in  scorn,  ''0  Father, 
Is  it  thus  yon  serve  the  Lord  ?" 

But  the  hermit,  resting  neither 
Hand  nor  hatchet,  meekly  said : 

"  He  who  does  no  daily  labor 
May  not  ask  for  daily  bread. 


"  Think  not  that  my  graces  slumber 
While  I  toil  throughout  the  day  ; 

For  all  honest  work  is  worship, 
And  to  labor  is  to  pray. 

"Think  not  that  the  heavenly  blessing 
From  the  workman's  hand  removes ; 

Who  does  best  his  task  appointed. 
Him  the  Master  most  approves." 

While  he  spoke  the  hermit,  pausing 
For  a  moment,  raised  his  eyes 

Where  the  overhanging  branches 
Swayed  beneath  the  sunset  skies. 
70 


WORK    AND    WORSHIP 

Through  the  dense  and  vaulted  forest 
Straight  the  level  sunbeam  came, 

Shining  like  a  gilded  rafter. 
Poised  upon  a  sculptured  frame. 


Suddenly,  with  kindling  features, 
While  he  breathes  a  silent  prayer, 

See,  the  hermit  throws  his  hatchet. 
Lightly,  upward  in  the  air. 

Bright  the  well-worn  steel  is  gleaming. 
As  it  flashes  through  the  shade. 

And  descending,  lo !  the  sunbeam 
Holds  it  dangling  by  the  blade  ! 

"  See,  my  son,"  exclaimed  the   hermit — 
''See  the  token  Heaven  has  sent; 

Thus  to  humble,  patient  effort 
Faith's  miraculous  aid  is  lent. 

"  Toiling,  hoping,  often  fainting. 

As  we  labor.  Love  Divine 
Through  the  shadows  pours  its  sunlight. 

Crowns  the  work,  vouchsafes  the  sign  !" 
71 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

Homeward,  slowly,  went  the   monarch. 
Till  he  reached  his  palace  hall. 

Where  he  strode  among  his  warriors. 
He  the  bravest  of  them  all. 


Soon  the  Benedictine  Abbey 
Eose  beside  the  hermit's  cell ; 

He,  by  royal  hands  invested, 
Kuled,  as  Abbot,  long  and  well. 

Now  beside  the  rushing  Danube 
Still  its  ruined  walls  remain. 

Telling  of  the  hermit's  patience. 
And  the  zeal  of  Charlemagne. 


THE    INVERSNAID    INN 

[Written  in  the  "Visitor's  Book,"  October  18,  1847] 

The  season  is  ended,  the  cold  days  begin. 
It's  all  over  now  with  the  Inversnaid  Inn 
Ben  Lomond's  bleak  forehead,  the  tempest-tossed 

Loch, 
The  wind  as  it  whistles  o'er  forest  and  rock, 
The  leaves  whirled  in  heaps  o'er  the  bog  and  the 

brook, 
Bat,  more    plainly,  the    leaves    of   this    Visitors' 

Book, 
Proclaim  the  sad  truth  that  the  dark  days  begin. 
And  it's  all  over  now  with  the  Inversnaid  Inn ! 

By  these  rugged  hillsides,  these  valleys  profound. 
The  travelling  public  no  longer  abound. 
No  more  the  tall  Scot,  with  his  buskin  and  plaid. 
Arrives  with  the   question,  "What  drink's  to  be 
had  ?" 

73 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

Nor  Englishman  tnrns  from  his  tramp  or  his  sail 
With  eager  inquiry  for  mutton  and  ale  ; 
Nor  Irishman,  fresh  from  his  darlin'  Dublin, 
Makes  merry  the  walls  of  the  Inversnaid  Inn. 

No  more  shall  the  student,  just  out  for  a  lark, 
With  head  growing  light  as   the   evening  grows 

dark; 
Nor  the  "  mercantile  gent "  from  Glasgow  or  Perth, 
Who  looks  at  the  landscape  to  see  what  it's  worth ; 
No  travelling  curate,  nor  respited  jurist. 
Nor   clerk   out   on   leave,  nor    tradesman   turned 

tourist — 
With    the    landlord's    low  bow,  or    the    hostler's 

broad  grin. 
Be  received  at  the  porch  of  the  Inversnaid  Inn. 

No  more  shall  "  my  lord,"  with  his  chaplain  and 
groom, 

Have  his  luncheon  served  up  in  a  separate  room  ; 

Nor    Stirling's   sweet    maidens    with    glad    songs 
awake 

The  echoes  that  sleep  by  the  shores  of  the  lake ; 

Nor  parties  of  pleasure  escape  from  the  Trosachs, 

With  curses  on  innkeepers  worse  than  the   Cos- 
sacks, 

74 


THE    INVERSNAID    INN 

To  advise  future  travellers  rather  to  pin 
Their  faith  on  the  landlord  of  Inversnaid  Inn. 

No,  the  season  is  ended,  the  dark  days  begin ; 
From  Stirling  and  Glasgow  the  last  coach  is  in, 
The  last  joint  is  roasted,  the  larder  is  bare, 
The  smoke  from  the  kitchen  has  faded  in  air. 
The  last  bill  receipted,  the  last  guinea  paid. 
The  last  shilling  doled  to  the  brisk  chambermaid ; 
The  landlord  may  delve  and  the  landlady  spin, 
They  will  get  no  more  cash  from  the  Inversnaid 
Inn. 

A  sad  picture  of  life  !  its  pleasures  fly  fast, 
The  breezes  of  fortune  give  way  to  its  blast. 
The   bright   hues  of   romance    grow   yellow    and 

brown. 
The  sunshine  of  fame  is  eclipsed  by  its  frown. 
The    warm    glow   of    friendship    and    passion    is 

chilled. 
The  echoes  of  love  in  the  bosom  are  stilled. 
The  tempest  without  and  the  darkness  within. 
We  are  left  in  the  storm,  like  the  Inversnaid  Inn ! 
75 


AT  RICHMOND 

At  Eichmond,  in  the  month  of  May, 
I  climbed  the  city's  lofty  crest ; 

Below,  the  level  landscape  lay. 

And  proudly  streamed,  from  east  to  west. 

The  glories  of  the  dawning  day. 

There  stand  the  statnes  Crawford  gave 
His  country,  while  with  bleeding  heart 

She  showered  upon  his  open  grave 
The  laurels  of  victorious  Art, 

And  wept  the  life  she  could  not  save. 

How  grandly,  on  that  granite  base, 
The  youthful  hero  sits  sublime ; 

The  leader  of  the  chosen  race. 
The  noblest  of  the  sons  of  Time, 

"With  all  his  future  in  his  face. 
76 


AT    RICHMOND 

And  he  who  framed  the  matchless  plan 
For  freedom  and  his  fatherland, 

Type  of  the  just,  sagacious  Man, 
Like  Aristides,  calm  and  grand. 

Within  the  Koman  Vatican. 

Nor  less  he  wears  the  patriot  wreath, 
The  foremost  of  the  three,  who  stands 

As  when  with  his  prophetic  breath, 

And  flashing  eyes,  and  out-stretched  hands. 

He  cried  for  "  Liberty  or  Death  !" 

Here  surely  it  is  good  to  be. 
Where  Freedom's  native  soil  I  tread, 

And,  on  the  mount,  transfigured  see 
The  Fathers,  with  whose  fame  we  wed 

The  endless  blessings  of  the  free. 

But  when  the  summit's  ample  crown 
Flamed  with  the  morning's  fiercer  heat, 

I  turned,  and  slowly  passing  down. 

With  curious  gaze,  from  street  to  street, 

Went  wandering  through  the  busy  town. 

And  lingered,  where  I  chanced  to  hear 
The  voices  of  a  crowd,  that  hung, 
77 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

With  laugh  and  oath  and  empty  jeer, 
Beside  a  door  o'er  which  was  swung 
The  red  flag  of  the  auctioneer. 

In  truth,  it  was  a  motley  crew : 
The  brutal  trader,  sly  and  keen  ; 

The  planter,  with  his  sunburnt  hue; 
The  idle  townsman,  and  between. 

With  face  unwashed,  the  foreign  Jew. 

Within,  0  God  of  grace  !  what  sight 

Was  this  for  eyes  which  scarce  had  turned 

From  yonder  monumental  height. 

For  thoughts  upon  whose  altars  burned 

The  fires  just  kindled  in  its  light ! 

So  when  the  rapt  disciples  came 
From  Tabor  on  that  blessed  morn. 

What  chilled  so  soon  their  hearts  of  flame  ? 
The  fierce  demoniac,  wild  and  torn. 

The  cry  of  human  guilt  and  shame. 

For  here  were  men,  young  men  and  old. 
Scarred  with  hot  iron  and  the  lash ; 

And  women,  crushed  with  griefs  untold ; 
And  little  children,  cheap  for  cash — 

All  waiting,  waiting — to  be  sold  ! 
78 


AT    RICHMOND 

For  me,  each  hourly  good  I  crave 
Comes  at  the  bidding  of  my  will ; 

For  them,  the  shadows  of  the  grave 
Have  gathered,  or  the  woes  that  fill 

The  life-long  bondage  of  the  slave. 

Too  long  my  thoughts  were  schooled  to  see 
Some  pretext  for  such  fatal  thrall ; 

Now  reason  spurns  each  narrow  plea. 
One  thrill  of  manhood  cancels  all, 

One  throb  of  pity  sets  me  free. 

Virginia  !  shall  the  great  and  just, 
Like  sentries,  guard  the  slaver's  den  ? 

0,  rise,  and  from  your  borders  thrust 
This  thrice-accursed  trade  in  men. 

Or  hurl  your  heroes  to  the  dust  ! 

1858 


THE    GARDEN    OF    THE    GODS 

Beneath  the  rocky  peak  that  hides 
In  clouds  its  snow-flecked  crest. 

Within  these  crimson  crags  abides 
An  Orient  in  the  West. 

These  tints  of  flame,  these  myriad  dyes. 

This  Eastern  desert  calm. 
Should  catch  the  gleam  of  Syrian  skies. 

Or  shade  of  Egypt's  palm. 

As  if  to  bar  the  dawn's  first  light 
These  ruby  gates  are  hung — 

As  if  from  Sinai's  frowning  height 
These  riven  tablets  flung. 

But  not  the  Orient's  drowsy  gaze — 
Young  Empire's  opening  lids 

Greet  these  strange  shapes  of  earlier  days 
Than  Sphinx  or  pyramids. 
80 


THE    GARDEN    OF    THE    GODS 

Here  the  New  West  its  wealth  unlocks, 

And  tears  the  veil  aside 
Which  hid  the  mystic  glades  and  rocks 

The  Redmeu  deified. 

This  greensward,  girt  with  tongues   of  flame, 

With  spectral  pillars  strewn, 
Not  strangely  did  the  savage  name 

A  haunt  of  gods  unknown. 

Hard  by,  the  gentle  Manitou 

His  healing  fountains  poured, 
Blood  red  against  the  cloudless  blue 

These  storm-tossed  Titans  soared. 

Not  carved  by  art  or  man's  device. 

Nor  shaped  by  human  hand. 
These  altars,  meet  for  sacrifice. 

This  temple,  vast  and  grand. 

With  torrents  wild  and  tempest  blast 

And  fierce  volcanic  fires. 
In  secret  moulds  has  Nature  cast 

These  monoliths  and  spires. 

Their  shadows  linger  where  we  tread. 
Their  beauty  fills  the  place— 

F  81 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

A  broken  shrine — its  votaries  fled, 
A  spurned  and  vanished  race. 

Untouched  by  Time  the  garden  gleams, 
Unplucked  the  wild  flower  shines ; 

And  the  scarred  summit's  rifted  seams 
Are  bright  with  glistening  pines. 

And  still  the  guileless  heart  that  waits 

At  Nature's  feet  may  find 
"Within  the  rosy,  sunlit  gates, 

A  hidden  glory  shrined : 

His  presence  feel  to  whom,  in  fear. 
Untaught,  the  savage  prayed. 

And  listening  in  the  garden,  hear 
His  voice,  nor  be  afraid. 

ManitoUj  Colorado,  July,  1880 


A    MIDNIGHT    SUN    EPISODE 

SouTHWAED,  gray  peaks  rise  flecked  with  snow, 

Their  rifted  sides  all  fringed  with  green  ; 
On  mountain  breast  and  waves  below 

Gleams  one  bright  strip  of  sunset  sheen ; 
Northward,  deep  gloom  the  sky  enshrouds, 

And,  save  that  lone  ray  shot  afar. 
The  Sun  is  chained  in  heavy  clouds, 

A  King  behind  a  prison  bar. 

Though  still  her  westward  course  is  free, 

With  sudden  swing,  our  noble  ship 
No  longer  seeks  the  open  sea, 

But  steers  for  yonder  sunlit  strip  ; 
And  while  we  start,  in  mute  surprise. 

To  see  this  new,  strange  course  begun. 
Hark,  from  the  bridge,  the  Captain  cries, 

**  To-night  we  chase  the  Midnight  Sun  I" 
83 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

Last  night  from  off  the  grim  "  Nord  Cap  " 

A  denser  cloud-belt  loomed  on  high  ; 
To-night  the  dusky  folds  enwrap. 

With  lighter  grasp,  a  lower  sky  ; 
Above  their  edge  a  bright  ray  streams 

And  lights  and  cheers  yon  shining  space; 
Once  there  we  too  shall  share  its  beams. 

And  so  the  Midnight  Sun  we  chase. 

"Well  pleased  we  sail,  for  he  knows  best. 

Our  Captain,  whom  we  all  obey. 
To  North  or  South,  or  East  or  "West, 

We  follow  where  he  points  the  way ; 
True  seaman  bold,  at  whose  command 

All  risks  we  brave,  all  dangers  shun  ; 
Through  sea,  or  strait,  by  shoal  or  strand. 

We'll  chase,  with  him,  the  Midnight  Sun. 

Vain  quest ;  the  glittering  line  recedes — 

We  follow  on  ;  it  glides  before — 
With  phantom  dance  it  lures  and  leads 

And  beckons  to  the  rock-bound  shore  ; 
Yet  southward  still  we  slowly  sail. 

And  landward  points  our  steady  prow. 
As  though  its  steel-clad  beak  would  scale 

The  snow-tipped  mountain's  gleaming  brow. 
84 


A    MIDNIGHT    SUN    EPISODE 

Too  late  ;  the  midnight  bells  have  rung  ; 

Too  late ;  the  cloud-bar  tarries  yet ; 
Seaward,  once  more,  our  ship  is  swung, 

The  Midnight  Sun  in  gloom  has  set. 
Still,  lingering  on  the  decks,  we  wait, 

Or  sadly  vanish,  one  by  one  ; 
Alas  !  is  this  the  hopeless  fate 

Of  those  who  chase  the   Midnight  Sun  ? 

Look  !  look  !    The  Captive  King  has  torn 

His  riven  chain  in  scattered  rifts, 
Full-orbed  and  free,  in  Midnight  Morn, 

The  Sun  his  flaming  disk  uplifts. 
"  The  Sun  !  The  Sun  V    The  cry  rings  out. 

The  chase  is  o'er,  the  goal  is  won. 
From  sea  to  sky  a  joyous  shout, 

For  we  have  found  the  Midnight  Sun. 

While  from  his  chamber  in  the  North, 

From  this  his  blazing  Arctic  throne. 
New  crowned,  the  bridegroom  King  goes  forth 

To  light  the  globe  from  zone  to  zone, 
To  us  he  grants  this  perfect  day 

And  floods  its  hours  with  cloudless  light. 
In  regal  splendor  guides  our  way. 

With  noontide  pomp  from  morn  to  night. 
85 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

As  from  a  golden  beaker's  brim, 

All  day,  nndimmed,  his  radiance  pours, 
Till,  far  above  the  ocean  rim. 

He  slowly  sinks  and  sets  and  soars  ; 
And  thus,  by  Tromso's  tranquil  shore. 

Where  earliest  dawn  with  midnight  blends, 
A  dream  of  joy,  forever  more. 

Our  golden  day  in  glory  ends. 

TbomsO,  Norway,  July,  1895 


"ALL   'S   WELL!" 

Eight  bells  !    Eight  bells  !  their  clear  tone  tells 

The  midnight  hour  is  here, 
And  as  they  cease,  these  words  of  peace 

Fall  gently  on  my  ear — 

"All  's  well  !    All  's  well!" 

Fond  thoughts  fly  far,  where  loved  ones  are, 

Though  distant,  ever  near. 
From  those  -dear  homes  the  echo  comes. 

Our  longing  hearts  to  cheer — 

"  All  's  well !    All  's  well !" 

Swift  through  the  deep  our  course  we  keep, 

To  shores  unseen  we  steer. 
No  thought  of  ill  our  souls  shall  chill, 
Nor  wind  nor  wave  we  fear — 

"All  's  well!    All  's  well!" 
87 


POEMS    OF    TRAVEL 

Thus  o'er  life's  sea  our  voyage  may  be 
A  pathway  lone  and  drear. 

Through  tempest  loud  and  sorrow's  cloud. 
Faith  still  shall  whisper  near — 

''All  's  well!    All  '&  well!" 

And  when  for  me,  earth,  sky,  and  sea 

Shall  fade  and  disappear. 
May  this  sweet  note  still  downward  float. 

From  some  undying  sphere — 

''All  's  well!    All  's  well!" 

"  Bothnia,"  June,  1881 


OBERAMMERGAU 

1890 


OBEKAMMERGAU 

1890 

A  TEEMBLING  VOW  breathed  iu  a  night  of  fears ; 

A  votive  offering  wet  with  bitter  tears ; 

Faith's   faltering  cry  through   thickest   midnight 

gloom ; 
Hope's  last  faint  signal  by  the  opening  tomb  ; 
Thus,  in  despair,  the  stricken  peasants  prayed  : 
"  0,  Father,  if  this  cruel  plague  be  stayed. 
We  and  our  children  pledge  ourselves  to  Thee, 
In  every  decade  of  the  years  to  be, 
While  Amnier's  waters  through  our  valley  glide, 
Or  Kofel's  summit  greets  the  morning  tide. 
With  all  our  powers,  however  scant  and  rude. 
In  very  act  and  true  similitude. 
Before  the  world  and  in  the  light  of  day. 
The  Saviour's  cross  and  Passion  to  portray." 

The  prayer  was  heard,  so  runs  the  record  old. 
Thenceforth  no  lamb  was  stricken  in  the  fold, 
91 


OBERAMMERGAU 

Nor  man,  nor  matron,  youth  or  maiden  died. 
But  healing  balm,  from  every  mountain  side 
Brought  back  new  health  to  wasted  forms  and  gave 
In  every  home  a  rescue  from  the  grave. 
Safe  in  its  hill-girt  vale  the  hamlet  slept ; 
Through  the  green  dales  the  gentle  Ammer  swept. 
New  blessings  bringing  to  each  peasant  door, 
And  all  was  peace  and  plenty  as  of  yore ; 
While  far  above,  fit  genius  of  the  place. 
Gray  Kofel,  towering  from  his  massive  base. 
Still  kept  his  sentry  watch,  where,  stern  and  lone, 
Eose  to  the  sky  his  rugged,  cross-tipped  cone. 

The  trembling  lips  which  breathed  that  early  vow. 
Long  stilled  in  death,  are  dust  and  ashes  now ; 
The  years  have  flown,  the  centuries  rolled  away, 
Kingdoms  and  crowns  have  crumbled  to  decay; 
Old  things  have  passed  away,  all  things  are  new. 
But  to  the  fathers'  pledge  the  sons  are  true. 
No  chance  of  war,  nor  tidal  wave  of  change 
Have  ploughed  their  furrows  past  this  mountain 

range. 
While  perjured  monarchs  from  their  seats  were 

hurled. 
And  trusts  betrayed  with  blood  have  drenched  the 

world, 

93 


OBERAMMERGAU 

On  these  poor  peasants,  all  untaught,  unskilled, 
Fell  the  rich  blessing  of  a  vow  fulfilled. 
Till,  on  the  mountain-top,  the  handful  sown 
Of  precious  grain,  to  such  fair  height  has  grown 
That  while,  from  far,  the  wondering  world  looks 

on. 
Its  golden  fruitage  shakes  like  Lebanon. 

We  sat  in  silence,  twice  two  thousand  souls, 
Our  thoughts  together  fused  like  molten  coals ; 
Round  the  vast  theatre,  through  its  open  space. 
The  summer  sunlight  fell  and  filled  the  place; 
In  the  blue  sky,  fit  background  for  each  scene. 
Rose  the  encircling  hills  with  pastures  green; 
A  Sabbath  stillness  wrapt  us  all  about. 
And  overhead  the  birds  flew  in  and  out. 
A  sudden  stir — then,  with  clear  note  and  strong, 
The  bright-robed  chorus,  bursting  into  song — 
Broke  the  deep  silence  with  the  measured  strain 
Which  keeps  throughout  the  play  its  long  refrain, 
To  herald  each  new  action  and  rehearse 
The  Scripture  story,  wrought  in  stately  verse. 
While  groups  symbolic  placed  before  the  view 
Those  ancient  types,  the  figures  of  the  True, 
Which  deep  within  their  mystic  lines  enfold 
All  the  New  Covenant,  blent  with  all  the  Old. 

93 


OBERAMMERGAU 

In  these  rare  groupings,  posed  with  wondrous  art. 
From  every  home  the  peasants  take  their  part, 
For  each  and  all,  strong  man  or  tender  child. 
An  act  of  worship,  pure  and  undefiled. 
Chorus  and  symbols  both,  twin  streamlets,  glide. 
By  the  main  Drama's  full  majestic  tide. 

The  curtain  rises  :  a  tumultuous  throng 

Fills  the  vast  stage  j  with  shouting  and  with  song, 

And  wealth  of  waving  palms,  they  bring  with  them 

The  Son  of  David  to  Jerusalem. 

He  comes — as  written  in  the  prophet's  roll — 

Meek,  lowly,  riding  on  an  ass's  foal. 

Alighting,  now.  He  stands  before  our  view. 

How  strange   the  semblance  and   how   strangely 

true  ; 
The  player  is  a  peasant — such  was  He, 
Working  in  wood — His  trade  was  carpentry ; 
The  noble  figure,  wrapped  in  simplest  robe. 
Might  fit  a  monarch  born  to  rule  the  globe; 
Beneath  the  parted  locks,  the  oval  face 
Seems  a  true  type  of  Judah's  lofty  race  ; 
That  face  serenely  sad,  severely  grave. 
With  pity  tender,  with  high  purpose  brave. 
A  human  Christ,  the  Son  of  Man  is  He ; 
Jesus  of  Nazareth,  in  Galilee  ; 
94 


OBERAMMERGAU 

True  son  of  Mary,  yet  by  sin  untainted. 
The  Man  of  Sorrows,  and  with  grief  acquainted ; 
John's  Lamb  of  God,  unblemished,  without  spot. 
Who  sought  His  own  and  they  received  Him  not ; 
Judah's  fierce  Lion,  as,  with  knotted  cord, 
He  clears  the  Temple  of  its  sordid  horde, 
O'erturns  the  tables,  in  His  righteous  wrath. 
Drives  the  scared  usurers  from  His  royal  path 
And  spurns  the  caitiff  band,  whose  knavish  trade 
His  Father's  house  a  den  of  thieves  has  made. 
Leader  and  Lord,  true  heir  of  Israel's  throne. 
Will  He  not  make  this  kingly  hour  His  own, 
While  loud  hosannas,  in  the  market-place. 
Proclaim  Him  head  of  David's  royal  race! 

Alas  !  His  hour  has  come,  but  not  the  hour 
Of  Judah's  throne  regained,  or  earthly  power. 
Scarce  cease  the  plaudits  when  the  baffled  crowd 
Of  Temple  traders,  with  their  curses  loud. 
Smarting  with    shame   and  wild   with   rage   and 

fears. 
Besiege  the  Sanhedrim.     On  willing  ears 
Their  cry  for  vengeance  falls ;  the  plot  is  laid 
To  seize  the  Nazarene,  with  Judas'  aid  ; 
The  flames  of  hate  by  priestly  craft  are  fed, 
Jesus  is  doomed — a  price  is  on  His  head. 

95 


OBERAMMERGAU 

The  greed  of  gold,  corroding  all  the  heart, 
Is  shown  with  vivid  strokes  in  Judas'  part. 
He  bears  the  bag,  at  best  a  slender  hoard. 
And  sits  a  welcome  guest  at  Simon's  board  ; 
There  Mary  kneels,  intent  on  service  meet. 
And  pours  the  spikenard  on  the  Master's  feet. 
Then,    through  the    perfumed    air,   with    sudden 

haste, 
The  traitor  sneers  and  chides  the  needless  waste : 
"This  ointment   sold,  three   hundred   pence  had 

brought 
To  feed  the  poor — what  folly  she  hath  wrought." 
In  calm  rebuke  the  Master's  voice  is  heard  : 
"  Let  her  alone,"  is  His  reproving  word, 
"Against  My  burial  this  good  work  shall  be  ; 
The  poor  ye  always  have — not  always  Me." 

For  death  anointed  thus.  He  fearless  goes, 
To  face  once  more  His  unrelenting  foes  ; 
He  turns  from  Bethany,  calm  resting-place. 
And  towards  Jerusalem  sets  His  steadfast  face. 
There   have   the   prophets   perished,   there   must 

He, 
Last  of  the  prophets,  die  on  Calvary. 
But  as  He  passes  on  the  village  street. 
Mother  and  Son  for  one  brief  moment  meet. 
96 


OBERAMMERGAU 

No  scene  more  tender  :  while  her  pierced  heart 

bleeds, 
With  sharp  foreboding,  earnestly  she  pleads 
To  share  His  coming  doom,  His   opening  grave. 
If  from  His  foes  Himself  He  will  not  save. 
Gently  He  calms  her — must  He  not  fulfil 
To  the  last  bitter  end  the  Father's  will  ? 
And   while,  through  tears,  we  gaze,  with    stifled 

breath, 
He  parts  from  Mary  on  His  way  to  death. 

The  scene  has  shifted :  in  the  twilight  gloom 
The  Twelve  are  with  Him  in  the  upper  room ; 

This  the  Real  Presence,  when  the  bread  He  breaks. 
The  wine-cup  blesses  and  of  both  partakes. 
Then  from  His  heart  what  wealth  of  love  is  poured 
On  all  the  chosen,  round  that  Paschal  board; 
"While  seated  nearest,  loved  beyond  the  rest, 
John  leans  his  head  upon  his  Master's  breast. 
The  supper  ended,  silently  He  moves. 
With  tenderest  ministry  to  those  He  loves. 
And  meekly  stoops — 0  sacrifice  complete  !-^ 
With  girded  towel,  at  the  traitor's  feet. 

The  plot  moves  swiftly;  from  the  Master's  touch 
The  false  disciple  flies,  and  with  foul  clutch 
o  97 


OBERAMMERGAU 

The  thirty  pieces  grasps — the  price  of  blood — 
Then,  headlong  swept  upon  the  surging  flood 
Of  Jewish  hate,  at  once,  with  stealthy  tread. 
To  Olive's  shade  the  Roman  band  is  led; 
His  whispered  signal  to  the  soldiers,  this— 
"He  whom  ye  seek  is  He  whom  I  shall  kiss." 
There,  while  each  weary,  sad  disciple  sleeps. 
His  midnight  watch,  alone,  the  Master  keeps ; 
An  hour  of  agony.     At  last  He  cries  : 
"He  that  betrays  Me  is  at  hand.     Arise!" 
And,  as  He  speaks,  that  holiest  shrine  of  prayer 
Bristles  with  Roman  spears,  and  Judas  there 
Glides  through  the  garden,  and,  with  serpent  hiss, 
"  Hail,  Master !"  calls ;  betraying  with  a  kiss ! 

The  end  draws  near.     In  haste  the  rulers  meet; 
Their  hunted  victim  now  is  at  their  feet. 
They  speed  the  trial ;  set  in  foul  array 
The  perjured  hirelings;  swear  His  life  away. 
And  meet  His  claims  divine  with  taunting  cry — 
"What  need  of  proof  ?    Ye  hear  His  blasphemy!" 
Soon  the  swift  sentence  falls.  His  doom  must  be 
A  felon's  death,  which  Pilate  shall  decree. 
"Not  death!     Not  death!"    then  Judas   wildly 

cries, 
"  Condemn  Him  not  to  die — to  sacrifice 


OBERAMMEKGAU 

The  Master's  precious  life  I  never  meant — 
What  have  I  done  ?     Betrayed  the  Innocent." 
"See   thou   to    that/'  unmoved,  the    priests    ex- 
claim, 
And  Judas,  stung  by  guilt,  convulsed  with  shame. 
Flings  back  the  shekels,  and  with  frenzied  stride 
Kushes  to  death — an  outcast  suicide. 

At  Pilate's  bar,  the  Roman's  proud  disdain 
Fades  into  fear  he  strives  to  hide  in  vain ; 
In  this  strange  prisoner,  friendless  and  alone. 
He  finds  a  nature  nobler  than  his  own; 
No  Galilean,  cast  in  common  mould. 
Kingly  as  Cgesar,  patient,  calm,  and  bold. 
He  seeks  no  earthly  crown ;  His  nobler  aim 
To  witness  to  the  truth.     For  this  He  came. 
And  "What  is  truth?"  the  startled  Pagan  cries. 
While  Truth  Incarnate  stands  before  his  eyes. 
No  fault  in  Him  he  finds,  but  it  may  be 
That  Herod,  lately  come  from  Galilee, 
Can  best  adjudge,  and  so  the  soldiers  bring 
The  guiltless  prisoner  to  that  guilty  king. 
Here  He  stands  silent.     Herod  vainly  seeks 
Some  word  or  sign,  but  not  a  word  He  speaks; 
The  men  of  war,  like  raging  beasts  of  prey. 
Torment  the  victim  whom  they  dare  not  slay ; 
99 


OBERAMMERGAU 

As  long  foretold  in  prophecy  and  psalm, 
They  mock  and  jeer  and  smite  with  open  palm, 
While  He,  as  sheep  before  the  shearers  dumb, 
Waits,  in  meek  silence,  till  the  end  shall  come. 
How  strange  a  contrast  on  the  stage  is  shown — 
The  cunning  tetrarch  on  his  vassal  throne, 
Herod,  the  "  fox,"  as  Jesns  named  him  well. 
Who  slew  the  Baptist  in  his  prison  cell, 
Loud    with   coarse   sneers,   half    jester   and   half 

brute ; 
The  Christ,  immaculate,  sublimely  mute. 

No  judgment  Herod  gives ;  with  crafty  skill 
He  bows  obsequious  to  Pilate's  will  ; 
And  now,  once  more,  the  weary  prisoner  stands 
Before  his  judgment-seat,  and  in  his  hands 
Trembles  His  fate.     Feebly  the  Roman  strives 
To  save  this  life,  worth  all  Judean  lives; 
But  now  the  priests  have  roused  the  people's  rage. 
And  once  again  a  concourse  fills  the  stage 
And  rules  the  hour — the  false  and  fickle  crowd 
That  yesterday,  with  shout  and  chorus  loud. 
Welcomed  the  coming  king  ;  their  vengeful  cry 
Is  not  "  Hosanna  "  now,  but  "  Crucify  !" 
"What!  crucify  your  king?  Behold  Him  there  I" 
"  We  have  no  king  but  Caesar  !"  rends  the  air. 
100 


OBERAMMERGAU 

One  last  appeal:  "The  Paschal  feast  is  nigh, 
At  which  one  malefactor  doomed  to  die 
I  mnst  release/^  and  as  he  speaks  they  fetch 
From  prison  walls  hard  by,  a  loathsome  wretch, 
Condemned  for  many  crimes,  the  Law's  jnst  prey, 
"Who  stands  before  them  in  the  light  of  day, 
A  hideous  sight,  whereat  all  outcries  cease, 
"While  Pilate  cries,  "Whom  will  ye  I  release  V 
Too  swiftly  comes  the  answer  to  his  call — 
'•'  Not  Jesus,  but  Barabbas,"  say  they  all. 
"W^ith  coward  will,  borne  down  by  Jewish  hate. 
Meanly  he  leaves  the  victim  to  His  fate, 
"Washes  his  hands,  vain  show,  and  in  one  breath 
Declares  Christ  guiltless — gives  Ilim  up  to  death. 

So  swiftly  all  has  passed,  that  Mary  knows 

Only  of  Jesus'  capture  by  His  foes  ; 

The  Master  taken.  His  disciples  fled. 

And  in  their  flight  the  fatal  tidings  spread. 

But  John  and  Peter  through  the  darkness  crept 

"Where,  in  the  High  Priest's   hall,  the  watch  was 

kept. 
And  by  the  flrelight,  near  their  Master's  side. 
Waited,  in  fear,  for  what  might  next  betide. 
There,  as  the  Lord  foretold,  to  Peter  came 
His  sudden,  craven  lapse  ;  his  hour  of  shame. 
101 


OBERAMMERGAU 

Slow  waned  the  night,  and  ere  the  cock  crew  twice, 
Had  he,  with  oaths,  denied  the  Saviour  thrice; 
Then  tlie  Lord  looked  on  Peter,  and  he  went. 
In  outer  darkness,  to  the  banishment 
Of  bitter  tears,  his  head  in  anguish  bowed. 
Beating  his  breast,  with  lamentations  loud. 
John  hastes  to  Mary,  and  we  see  them  next. 
In  the  great  city  wandering,  perplexed 
With  doubts  and  fears,  when,  suddenly,  a  cry 
Breaks  on  their  ears — the  multitude  is  nigh, 
Who  view  their  victim,  with  triumphant  hate. 
Led  to  His  death  outside  the  city's  gate ; 
He  bears  His  cross,  and  now  as  Mary  stops. 
With  looks  aghast,  beneath  its  weight  He  drops ; 
While,  as  with  lightning  stroke,  upon  her  gaze. 
The  whole  truth  flashes  with  consuming  blaze. 
"  Is  this  the  goal  His  life  of  love  has  won. 
Death  on  the  cross  accurst  ? — my  Son  !  my  Son  !" 

We  gaze  and  shrink,  and,  shrinking,  still  we  gaze. 
As  with  strong  hands  the  middle  cross  they  raise. 
All  things  set  down  in  Holy  Writ  are  here — 
The  crown  of  thorns,  the  reed,  the  Roman  spear, 
The  parted  garments  and  the  seamless  vest, 
The  foul-mouthed  rabble,  with  coarse  Jeer  and 
jest, 

103 


OBERAMMERGAU 

The  -wagging  heads,  the  rulers'  boastful  cry, 
The  sudden  earthquake  and  the  darkened  sky — 
Too  real  all ;  with  horrors  so  campact 
We  lose  the  actors  in  the  awful  act ; 
The  mimic  scene  recedes,  the  players'  stage. 
Before  the  Passion  of  the  Gospel  page: 
Nailed  to  the  cruel  wood,  in  dying  pangs, 
Between  two  thieves,  the  suffering  victim  hangs ; 
Supreme  in  power — to  him  who  faintly  cries 
''Eemember  me,"  He  opens  Paradise. 
Supreme  in  love — that  love  His  murderers  share, 
'^  Father,  forgive  them,''  is  His  pitying  prayer. 
Still    beats    His    human    heart    towards    ^Mary's 

breast — 
"Behold  Thy  mother,  Soti" — His  sole  bequest. 
In  cruel  answer  to  His  fainting  call, 
''I  thirst,"  they  bring  Him  vinegar  and  gall. 
The  Father's  face  withdrawn,  in  brief  eclipse — 
"Forsake?i,"  trembles  from  His  quivering  lips — 
Then,  ''It  is  finished,"  wf'ith.  loud  voice  He  cries. 
Commends  His  parting  soul  to  God,  and  dies. 

Beneath  the  fatal  tree,  in  thickest  gloom. 
The  faithful  few  are  grouped  by  Joseph's  tomb ; 
With  loving  thought  he  begged,  and  Pilate  gave. 
The  lifeless  body  for  his  rock-hewn  grave  ; 
103 


OBERAMMERGAU 

Then  on  the  ladder's  round  his  aid  he  lends, 

As  from  the  cross  the  sacred  form  descends. 

This  is  the  sombre  scene  by  Enbens  cast 

On  his  famed  canvas,  in  the  transept  vast 

Of  Antwerp's  great  cathedral,  and  to-day 

The  tragic  movement  of  the  Passion  Play 

Starts  into  life  the  forms  his  pencil  wrought. 

The  players'  action  with  the  painter's  thought. 

Then,  for  a  little  space,  her  Son  is  laid 

In  Mary's  arms,  for  death's  long  sleep  arrayed ; 

With  burial  rite  of  tears  and  fond  embrace. 

They  bear  Him  gently  to  His  resting-place. 

Love  can  avail  no  more  ;  the  Crucified 

Is  dead  and  buried.     In  His  grave  abide 

What  vanished  visions !    Hope  with  Him  has  fled. 

The  Lord  of  Israel  slain,  Messiah  dead. 

The  mourners  pass  and  all  is  over  now, 

Only  the  spectral  cross  on  Calvary's  brow, 

Brand  of  the  world's  worst  shame,  stands  lone  and 

bare. 
Symbol  of  Heaven's  wrath  and  man's  despair. 

This  is  the  human  ending,  for  the  rest. 
The  seqael  is  divine  and  silence  best. 
Few  scenes  and  simple  mark  the  drama's  close; 
In  the  gray  dawn  the  Easter  sunlight  glows; 
104 


OBERAMMERGAU 

At  the  grave's  month,  arisen,  as  He  said, 
The  Lord  appears;  the  Living  leaves  the  Dead, 
And  at  the  last  His  radiant  form  is  shown 
In  clouds  ascending  to  the  Father's  throne. 

We  quit  the  place,  and  home  returning  say; 

*'  These  are  strange  things  that  we  have  seen  to- 

day." 
Still  while   we  muse,  one  thought  the  most  in- 
tense— 
How  have  these  men  this  marvellous  power,  and 

whence  ? 
No  classic  Roscius  taught  their  earlier  age, 
No  tragic  Talma  trod  their  later  stage. 
Nor  modern  players,  versed  in  all  the  schools, 
Have  hither  brought  their  new  dramatic  rules ; 
And  yet  these  peasant  actors,  undismayed. 
In    loftier    parts    than    Shakespeare    drew    have 

played. 
And  not  for  rustic  boors  or  mountain  swains. 
Or  simple  herdsmen  on  Bavarian  plains. 
Hither  the  world  is  drawn ;  from  all  its  shores 
Comes  the  vast  throng  that  through  these  gate- 
ways pours; 
Here  sit  the  critics  who  with  practised  gaze 
View  each  fresh  triumph  won  when  Irving  plays, 
105 


OBERAMMERGAU 

Or  as  the  maddened  Moor,  Salvini  strides, 
Or  Booth  unlocks  the  secret  Hamlet  hides. 
How  have  these   peasants    dared    this   height  to 

scale, 
Where  to  succeed  in  part  were  but  to  fail, 
With  fearless  footsteps  on  the  dizzy  edge, 
Where  less  than  full  success  were  sacrilege? 

Twofold  the  answer.     Five  times  fifty  years 
One  lofty  thought  possessed  these  mountaineers  ; 
A  generation  slept,  another  came. 
And  still  their  purpose  kept  its  steadfast  aim, 
Kan  in  their  blood  and  in  their  pulses  thrilled. 
And  all  their  life  with  all  its  spirit  filled. 
Nor  deem  it  strange.     What  altar  fires  have  leapt 
Where  by  a  chosen  few  a  faith  is  kept ; 
What  deeds  heroic  ever  have  been  done, 
AYhere  one  strong  impulse  sweeps  from  sire  to  son ! 
See  where  apart,  in  mountain  wilds  of  Spain, 
One  lonely  tribe  in  all  the  world  retain 
Their  Orient,  alien  speech,  and  dwell  alone  ; 
So  here  the  ancient  Mystery  claims  its  own. 
And  sets  apart  this  far  Bavarian  clan 
To  show  the  Passion  of  the  Son  of  Man. 
Nor  is  this  all.     As  on  the  wave,  the  crest. 
One  master  spirit  shines  above  the  rest, 
106 


OBERAMMERGAU 

Whose  patient  labor,  wrought  from  day  to  clay, 
Through  thirty  years,  has  made  the  Passion  Play: 
The  village  pastor,  shepherd  of  his  fold, 
Simple  of  heart,  but  fired  with  courage  bold, 
To  mould  the  native  thought  with  daring  skill, 
And  with  the  world  its  well-won  fame  to  fill — 
His  touch  has  fashioned  all ;  his  plastic  art 
Shaped  every  scene  and  rounded  every  part ; 
His  hand  has  planted  on  his  hamlet's  brow 
The  sparkling  diadem  which  crowns  it  now. 

Fair  Oberammergau !  to  thy  pure  shrine 
How  many  thoughts  to-day  revert  with  mine; 
From  over  distant  seas,  from  every  zone. 
What  countless  memories  claim  thee  as  their  own; 
To  thee  we  flocked  as  birds  of  passage  fly, 
Their  close-locked  pinions  darkening  all  the  sky, 
To  pause  an  instant  on  some  sunlit  height. 
Then  part  forever  in  their  scattered  flight ; 
From  North  and  South,  from  East  and  West  we 

came, 
Thy  loving  welcome  still  to  all  the  same. 
Thanks  to  each  peasant  host.     And  shall  it  be 
This  decade  ends  the  Passion  Mystery  ? 
Here,  as  of  old,  shall  sordid  greed  of  gain 
The  Temple  court  defile  with  touch  profane  ? 
107 


OBERAMMERGAU 

Shall  the  world's  concourse,  like  some  monntain 

slide. 
Choke  the  pure  streamlet  with  its  muddy  tide  ? 
Perchance  it  must  be  so,  yet,  as  Time  flies. 
As  the  years  roll,  the  waning  century  dies. 
Haply  thy  sons,  with  purpose  high  and  true. 
In  coming  decades  shall  the  vow  renew. 
Within  the  world,  yet  from  the  world  apart 
And  with  the  blessing  of  the  pure  in  heart. 
Safe  in  the  fastness  of  their  mountain  home. 
Show  forth  His  Passion  till  the  Saviour  come. 


MISCELLANEOUS     POEMS 


• 


THE    CAENIVAL    OF    1848 

Have  yoa  ever  seen  the  Carnival,  at  Paris,  or  at 
Kome  ? 

Have  you  quaffed  its  cup  of  merriment  when  it 
sparkled  at  its  foam  ? 

Have  you  caught  its  lively  jest,  and  its  stinging 
pasquinade  ? 

Have  you  Jostled  with  the  masks  in  the  motley 
masquerade  ? 

Have  you  whirled  along  the  Corso  "midst  the  tor- 
rents of  confetti? 

Have  you  marvelled  at  the  beauty  of  the  fairy 
mochoUtti  9 

0  merrier  than  this,  and  wilder  in  its  play. 

Is  the  Carnival  they're  keeping  on  the  Continent 

to-day  ! 
Not  the  idle   rabble   only,  nor  the   shiftless,  gay 

buffoon. 
But  the  monarch  plays  the  clown,  and  the  prince 

the  pantaloon  ; 

111 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

With  his  subjects  for  spectators,  as  it  suits  to  clap 

or  hiss, 
The  sovereign  of  the  last   year  is  the  harlequin 

of  this. 


'Twas  France  that  set  the  fashion,  in  the  month 

of  February, 
Louis  Philippe  led  it  off,  this  Carnival  so  merry. 
To  save  himself  from  shooting,  and  his  populace 

to  please. 
He  took  the  funny  character  of  poor  old  Char-Ies 

Dix  ; 
And   so  popular   it   proved,  and   so  very  full  of 

fun. 
That  in  this  famous  character  he  had  a  famous 

run  ! 

Then  perforce    with   every  Frenchman  was    the 

Carnival  in  vogue ; 
Then  poets  played  the  statesman,  and  statesmen 

played  the  rogue  ; 
Then  the   wisest   proved   the   weakest,   and   the 

weakest  proved  most  strong; 
And  still  goes   on  this   Carnival ;    but  who    may 

know  how  long  ? 

113 


THE    CARNIVAL    OF    1848 

Or,  when  the  masks  are  taken  off,  pray,  who  can 

tell  ns  yet, 
But  what  seems  the  Goddess  Liberty  may  prove 

a  mere  grisette? 

Bnt  the  Germans  joined  the  Carnival,  that  race 
of  steady  smokers, 

And  took  it  np  in  earnest,  too,  like  practical  old 
jokers ; 

And  of  their  madcap  plans,  what  did  most  ex- 
ecution 

Was  a  monstrous  Punchinello,  whom  they  nick- 
named Constitution; 

Beneath  the  palace  windows  they  bring  the  dread- 
ful fellow. 

And  all  the  kings  and  dukes  must  dance  aronnd 
this  Punchinello  ! 

Nor  was  the  joke  forgotten,  nor  was  the  fun  the 

least 
In   brilliant,   bright  Vienna,    the    Paris    of    the 

East! 
There,  by  the  rushing  Danube,  and  in  the  shady 

Prater, 
The  peasant  played  the  patriot,  and  the  student 

played  the  martyr; 
H  113 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Then   rang  St.  Stephen's  arches   with  slionts   of 

bloody  revel. 
While  the  altar  steps  were  stained  with  the  orgies 

of  the  Devil ! 

And  though  the  Emperor  Ferdinand  frowned  on 

his  Kaiser-stadt, 
And  called  the  frolic  treason,  and  rebellion,  and 

all  that ; 
And  thDugh  he  sent  an  army  for  the  public  taste 

to  cater, 
And  shot  poor  Printer  Blum  for  playing  legislator ; 
Yet,  after  all,  he  could  not  keep  from  giving  up 

himself. 
So  he  dances  from  his  throne,  and  his  crown  is 

on  the  shelf  ! 

But  the  Carnival  is  always  the  merriest  at  Eome, 
In   the   shadow  of   the    Pincian    and   St.  Peter's 

gorgeous  dome ; 
While  half  the   world  is  merry,   shall  they  join 

the  other  half  ? 
0  no,  the  Eomans  only  wait  to  have  a  louder  laugh! 
Around  the  Quirinal  they  cry,  *' Shall  other  lands 

outvie  us  ? 
Come  out  and  join  the  Carnival,  thou  reverend 

Father  Pius  !" 

114 


THE    CARNIVAL    OF    1848 

0,  when  his  turn  was  come,  who  joins  the  Car- 
nival quicker 

Than  the  Pontifex  Supremus,  and  universal 
Vicar  ? 

Not  long  it  takes  his  Holiness  to  practise  the 
deceiver, 

He  doffs  the  saintly  cassock,  and  he  dons  the 
modern  beaver, 

And  whirls  in  footman's  livery,  and  past  his  pal- 
ace gates, 

Through  the  Porta  San  Giovanni,  and  beyond  the 
Papal  states. 

So  goes  this  merry  Carnival,  and  who  of  us  that 
guesses 

Where  it  will  stop  or  what  'twill  do  in  all  its 
wild  excesses  ? 

But  it's  evident  there's  something  in  the  joke 
that's  very  taking. 

For  with  its  fun  old  Europe  in  all  her  sides  is 
shaking ; 

And  surely  to  good  democrats  the  joke  is  not 
amiss. 

That  the  sovereigns  of  the  last  year  are  the  har- 
lequins of  this  ! 

115 


THE   NEW  ARGONAUTS 

To-day  the  good  ship  sails ! 

Across  the  sparkling  sea. 
To-day  the  northern  gales 

Are  blowing  swift  and  free  ; 
Speed,  speed  her  distant  way 

To  that  far  land  of  gold  ; 
A  richer  prize  we  seek  than  they. 

The  Argonauts  of  old  I 

Who    goes   with    us  ?     Who    quits    the   tiresome 
shore. 

And  sails  where  Fortune  beckons  him  away  ; 
Where  in  that  marvellous  land,  in  virgin  ore, 

The  wealth  of  years  is  gathered  in  a  day  ? 
Here,  toil  and  trouble  are  our  portion  still. 

And  still  with  want  our  weary  work  is  paid. 
Slowly  the  shillings  drop  into  the  till. 

Small  are  the  profits  of  our  tedious  trade  ; 
116 


THE    NEW    ARGONAUTS 

There,  Nature  proffers  with  unstinted  hands 

The  countless  wealth  the  wide  domain  confines. 
Sprinkles  the  mountain  streams  Avith  golden 
sands, 

And  calls  the  adventurer  to  exhaustless  mines. 
Come,  then,  with  us  !  What  are  the  charms  of 
home  ? 

What  are  the  ties  of  friends  or  kindred  worth  ? 
Thither,  0  thither,  let  our  footsteps  roam. 

There  is  the  Eden  of  our  fallen  earth  ! 

Well  do  we  hold  the  fee  of  those  broad  lands 
Wrested  from  feebler  hands. 

By  our  own  sword  and  spear  ; 
Well  may  the  weeping  widow  be  consoled. 
And  orphaned  hearts   their  ceaseless   gi'ief  with- 
hold ; 

Well  have    our   brothers   shed   their  life-blood 
here. 

Say,  could  we  purchase  at  a  price  too  dear 
These  boundless  acres  of  uncounted  gold  ? 

Come,  then  !  it  is  to-day. 

To-day  the  good  ship  sails. 
And  swift  upon  her  way 

Blow  out  the  northern  gales ; 
117 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

A  twelvemonth  more,  and  we 
Our  homeward  course  shall  hold, 

With  richer  freight  within  than  theirs. 
The  Argonauts  of  old  ! 

Alas  for  honest  labor,  from  honest  ends  averted  ! 
Alas  for  firesides  left,  and  happy  homes  deserted  ! 
Brightly  the  bubble  glitters  ;    bright   in   the   dis- 
tance 
The  land  of  promise  gleams, 
But  ah,  the  phantom  fortunes  of  existence 

Live  but  in  dreams  ! 
Behold  the  end  afar — 

Beyond  the  bright  deceptive  cloud. 
Beneath  what  dim,  malignant  star, 

Sails  on  the  eager  crowd  ! 
Some  in  mid-ocean  lie  ; 

Some  gain  the  wished-for  shore 
And  grasp  the  golden  ore. 
But  sicken  as  they  grasp,  and,  where  they  sicken, 

die! 
There    have    they   found,    beside    the    mountain 

streams, 
On  desolate  crags  where  the  wild  eagle  screams, 
In  dark  ravines  where  Western  forests  wave. 
Gold  and  a  grave  ! 
118 


THE    NEW    ARGONAUTS 

Some  for  the  spendthrift's  eager  touch  ; 
Some  for  the  miser's  hoarded  store  ; 
Some    for    the    robber's    grasp,    the    murderer's 
clutch. 
Heap  up  the  precious  ore. 
Dear   bought  with   life's    lost    strength,  and  the 
heart's  withered  core  ! 


0  cursed  love  of  gold  ! 
Age  follows  age. 
And  still  the  world's  slow  records  are  unrolled 
Page  after  page ; 
And  the  same  tale  is  told. 
The  same  unholy  deeds  the  same  sad  scenes  un- 
fold ! 
Where  the  assassin's  knife  is  sharpened. 

In  the  dark ; 
Where  lies  the  murdered  man  in  the  midnight, 

Cold  and  stark ; 
Where  the  slave  groans  and  quivers  under 

The  driver's  lash  ; 
Where  the  keen-eyed  son  of  trade  is  bartering 

Honor  for  cash ; 
Where  the  sons  wish  the  fathers  dead,  of  their 
wealth 

119 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

To  be  partakers  ; 
Where  the  maiden  of  sixteen  weds  the  old  man 

For  his  acres  ; 
Where  the  gambler  stakes  his  all  on  the  last  throw 

Of  the  dice ; 
Where  the  statesman  for  his  country  and  its  glory- 
Sets  a  price ! 
There  are  thy  altars  reared,  thy  trophies  told, 
0  cursed  love  of  gold  ! 

1848 


THE   GKAVEYARD   AT   WEST  POINT 

On  this  sweet  Sabbath  morniug,  let  ns  wander 
From  the  loud  music  and  the  gay  parade. 

Where  sleeps  the  graveyard,  in  its  silence,  yonder. 
Deep  in  the  mountain  shade. 

There,  side  by  side,  the  dark,  green  cedars  cluster. 
Like  sentries  watching  by  that  camp  of  Death ; 

There,  like   an   army's    tents,  with   snow-white 
lustre. 
The  gravestones  gleam  beneath. 

But,  as  we  go,  no  posted  guard  or  picket 
Stays  our  approach  across  the  level  grass, 

Nor  hostile  challenge  at  the  simple  wicket 
Through  which  our  footsteps  pass. 

Sweet  spot,  by  Nature's  primal  consecration. 
Sacred  to  peace  and  thought  and  calm  repose. 

Well  in  thy  breast  that  elder  generation 
Their  place  of  burial  chose. 
121 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

And  well,  to-day,  whene'er  the  sad  procession 
Moves  o'er  the  plain,  with  slow  and  measured 
tread, 

Within  thy  silent  and  secure  possession 
The  living  leave  the  dead. 

Few  are  the  graves,  for  here  no  populous  city 
Feeds,  with  its  myriad  lives,  the  hungry  Fates, 

While  hourly  funerals,  led  by  grief  or  pity. 
Crowd  through  the  open  gates. 

Here  Death  is  rarer,  yet  full  many  a  token 
Tells  of  his  presence,  on  these  grassy  slopes — 

The  slab,  the  stone,  the   shaft,  half  reared  and 
broken. 
Symbol  of  shattered  hopes. 

Here  sleep  brave  men  who,  in  the  deadly  quarrel, 
Fought  for  their  country,  and  their  life-blood 
poured. 

Above  whose  dust  she  carves  the  deathless  laurel. 
Wreathing  the  victor's  sword. 

And  here  the  young  cadet,  in  manly  beauty, 
Borne  from  the  tents  which  skirt  those  rocky 
banks, 

122 


THE    GRAVEYARD    AT    WEST    POINT 

Called  from  life's  daily  drill  and  perilous  duty 
To  these  unbroken  ranks. 


Here  too  the  aged  man,  the  wife,  the  maiden, 
Together  hushed,  as  on  His  faithful  breast 

Who  cried,  ''Come  hither,  all  ye  heavy-laden. 
And  I  will  give  you  rest !" 

And    little    gravestones    through    the    grass    are 
gleaming, 
Sown,  like  the  lilies,  over  forms  as  fair. 
Of  whom,  to-day,  what  broken  hearts  are  dream- 
ing, 
Through  Sabbath  song  and  prayer. 

Peace    to    the   sleepers  I   may    the  bud    and  blos- 
som, 
Spring's   early  bloom   and   Summer's  sweet   in- 
crease, 
Fail  not,  while  Nature,  on  her  tender  bosom, 
Folds  them  and  whispers,  Peace  ! 

And  here  at  last  who  could  not  rest  contented  ; 
-beneath — the  river,  with  its  tranquil  flood, 
Around — the  breezes  of  the  morning,  scented 
With  odors  from  the  wood ; 
123 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Above— the  eternal  hills,  their  shadows  blending 
With  morn  and  noon  and  twilight's  deepening 
pall, 

And  overhead— the  infinite  heavens,  attending 
Until  the  end  of  all ! 


F.  B.  0. 

CHANCELLORSVILLE,  MAY  3,  1863 

He  was  oar  noblest,  he  was  our  bravest  and  best ! 
Tell  me  the  post  that  the  bravest  ever  have 
filled. 
The   front   of   the   fight!    It   was   his.     For  the 
rest — 
Read  the  list  of  the  killed. 

On  the  crown  of  the  ridge,  where  the  sulphurous 
crest 
Of  the  battle-wave  broke,  in  its  thunder  and 
flame. 
While   his   country's   badge   throbbed    with    each 
beat  of  his  breast, 
He  faced  death  when  it  came. 

His  battery  planted  in  front,  the  Brigadier  cried, 
''Who    commands    it?"    as    fiercely    the    foe 
charged  that  way ; 
125 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Then    how   proudly    onr   gallant    Lieutenant    re- 
plied, 
"  I  command  it  to-day  I" 

There  he   stood  by  his  guns ;  stout  heart,  noble 
form  ; 
Home  and  its  cherished  ones  never,  never  so 
dear, 
Round  him  the  whirlwind  of  battle,  through  the 
wild  storm. 
Duty  never  so  clear. 

Duty,  the  life  of  his  life,  his  sole  guiding  star. 
The   best  Joy  of  his  being,  the  smile  that  she 
gave, 
Her  call  the  music  by  which  he  marched  to  the 
war. 
Marched  to  a  soldier's  grave. 

Too  well  aimed,  with  its  murderous,  demon-like 
hiss. 
To  his  heart  the   swift  shot  on  its  errand  has 
flown — 
Call  it  rather  the  burning,  impetuous  kiss 
With  which  Fame  weds  her  own  ! 
126 


F.    B.    C. 

There  he  fell  on  the  field,  the  flag  waving  above, 
Faith    blending   with    joy    in    his    last    parting 
breath. 
To  his  Saviour  his  sonl,  to  his   country  the   love 
That  was  stronger  than  death. 

Ah,  how  sadly,  without  him,  we  go  on  our  Avay, 
Speaking    softer   the    name    that    has    dropped 
from  our  prayers  ; 
But  as  we  tell  the  tale  to  our  children  to-day. 
They  shall  tell  it  to  theirs. 

He  is  our  hero,  ever  immortal  and  young. 

With  her  martyrs  his   land  clasps   him  now  to 
her  breast. 
And  with  theirs  his  loved  name  shall  be  honored 
and  sung, 
Still  our  bravest  and  best  I 


DOBBS    HIS    FEREY 

A    LEGEND   OF   THE   LOWER   HUDSON 

The  days  were  at  their  longest, 
The  heat  was  at  its  strongest, 

When  Brown,  old  friend  and  true, 
Wrote  thus:  "^  Dear  Jack,  why  swelter 
In  town  when  shade  and  shelter 

Are  waiting  here  for  you  ? 
Quit  Bulls  and  Bears  and  gambling, 
For  rural  sports  and  rambling 

Forsake  your  Wall  Street  tricks  ; 
Come  without  hesitation, 
Check  to  Dobbs'  Ferry  Station, 

We  dine  at  half-past  six." 

I  went — a  welcome  hearty, 
A  merry  country  party, 

A  drive,  and  then  croquet, 
A  quiet,  well-cooked  dinner, 
Three  times  at  billiards  winner — 

The  evening  sped  away ; 
128 


DOBBS    HIS    FERRY 

When  Brown,  the  dear  old  joker, 
Cried,  "  Come,  my  worthy  broker, 

The  hour  is  growing  late ; 
Your  room  is  cool  and  quiet. 
As  for  the  bed,  just  try  it. 

Breakfast  at  half-past  eight." 

I  took  Brown's  hand,  applauded 
His  generous  care,  and  lauded 

Dobbs'  Ferry  to  the  skies. 
A  shade  came  o'er  his  features — 
"We  should  be  happy  creatures. 

And  this  a  paradise. 
But,  ah  !  the  deep  disgrace  is. 
This  loveliest  of  places 

A  vulgar  name  should  blight ! 
But,  death  to  Dobbs  !  we'll  change  it. 
If  money  can  arrange  it. 

So,  pleasant  dreams  ;  good-night !" 

I  could  not  sleep,  but,  raising 
The  window,  stood,  moon-gazing. 

In  fairy-land  a  guest  ; 
*'0n  such  a  night,"  et  cetera— 
See  Shakespeare  for  much  better  a 

Description  of  the  rest — 
I  129 


^' 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

I  mused,  how  sweet  to  wander 
Beside  the  river,  yonder ; 

And  then  the  sudden  whim. 
Seized  me  my  head  to  pillow 
On  Hudson's  sparkling  billow, 

A  midnight,  moonlight  swim  ! 

Soon  thought  and  soon  attempted ; 
At  once  my  room  was  emptied 

Of  its  sole  occupant ; 
The  roof  was  low,  and  easily, 
In  fact,  quite  Japanese-ily, 

I  took  the  downward  slant; 
Then,  without  stay  or  stopping. 
My  first  and  last  eaves-dropping. 

By  leader-pipe  I  sped, 
And  through  the  thicket  gliding, 
Down  the  steep  hill-side  sliding, 

Soon  reached  the  river's  bed. 

But  what  was  my  amazement — 
The  fair  scene  from  the  casement. 

How  changed  1    I  could  not  guess 
Where  track  or  rails  had  vanished. 
Town,  villas,  station,  banished — 

All  was  a  wilderness — 
130 


DOBBS    HIS    FERRY 

Only  one  ancient  gable, 

A  low-roofed  inn  and  stable, 

A  creaking  sign  displayed. 
An  antiquated  wherry. 
Below  it — "DoBBs  His  Ferry" — 

In  the  clear  moonlight  swayed. 

I  turned,  and  there  the  craft  was, 
Its  shape  'twixt  scow  and  raft  was. 

Square  ends,  low  sides,  and  flat; 
And,  standing  close  beside  me. 
An  ancient  chap  who  eyed  me. 

Beneath  a  steeple-hat ; 
Short  legs — long  pipe — style  very 
Pre-Revolutionary — 

I  bow,  he  grimly  bobs ; 
Then,  with  some  perturbation. 
By  way  of  salutation. 

Says  I,  ''How  are  you,  Dobbs  ?" 

He  grum  and  silent  beckoned. 
And  I,  in  half  a  second. 

Scarce  knowing  what  I  did. 
Took  the  stern  seat,  Dobbs  throwing: 
Himself  'midships,  and  rowing. 

Swift  through  the  stream  we  slid ; 
131 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

He  pulled  awhile,  then  stopping, 
And  both  oars  slowly  dropping, 

His  pipe  aside  he  laid. 
Drew  a  long  breath,  and  taking 
An  attitude,  and  shaking 

His  fist  towards  shore,  thus  said : 

"  Of  all  sharp  cuts  the  keenest. 
Of  all  mean  turns  the  meanest, 

Vilest  of  all  vile  jobs, 
"Worse  than  the  Cow-Boy  pillagers 
Are  these  Dobbs'  Ferry  villagers 
^      A-going  back  on  Dobbs  ! 
'Twould  not  be  more  anom'Ious 
If  Kome  went  back  on  Eoni'lus 

(Old  rum-un  like  myself). 
Or  Hail  Columbia,  played  out 
By  Southern  Dixie,  laid  out 
y        Columbus  on  the  shelf  ! 

''  They  say  '  Dobbs'  ain't  melodious, 
It's  'horrid,'  *  vulgar,'  'odious,' 

In  all  their  crops  it  sticks ; 
And  then  the  worse  addendum 
Of  'Ferry'  does  offend  'em 

More  than  it's  vile  prefix. 
132 


DOBBS    HIS    FERRY 

Well,  it  does  seem  distressing, 
But  if  I'm  good  at  guessing, 

Each  one  of  these  same  nobs. 
If  there  was  money  in  it. 
Would  ferry  in  a  minute. 

And  change  his  name  to  Dobbs  ! 

"  That's  it,  they're  not  partic'lar. 
Respecting  the  auric'lar. 

At  a  stiff  market  rate ; 
But  Dobbs'  especial  vice  is, 
That  he  keeps  down  the  prices 

Of  all  their  real  estate  ! 
A  name  so  unattractive 
Makes  villa-sites  inactive, 

And  spoils  the  broker's  jobs ; 
They  think  that  speculation 
Would  rage  at  'Paulding's  Station,' 

Which  stagnates  now  at  *  Dobbs.' 

"  '  Paulding's !'  —  that's  sentimental ! 
An  old  Dutch  Continental, 

Bushwhacked  up  there  a  spell ; 
But  why  he  should  come  blustering 
Round  here,  and  filibustering. 

Is  more  than  I  can  tell; 
133 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Sat  playing  for  a  wager. 
And  nabbed  a  British  major. 

Well,  if  the  plans  and  charts 
From  Andre's  boots  he  hauled  out. 
Is  his  name  to  be  bawled  out 

Forever,  round  these  parts  ? 

"  Guess  not !    His  pay  and  bounty 
And  mon'ment  from  the  county 

Paid  him  off,  every  cent. 
While  this  snug  town  and  station, 
To  every  generation, 

Shall  be  Dobbs'  monument ; 
Spite  of  all  speculators 
And  ancient-landmark  traitors. 

Who,  all  along  this  shore. 
Are  ever  substitutin' 
The  modern,  highfalutin. 

For  the  plain  names  of  yore. 

"Down  there,  on  old  Manhattan, 
Where  land-sharks  breed  and  fatten. 

They've  wiped  out  Tubby  Hook. 
That  famous  promontory. 
Renowned  in  song  and  story. 

Which  time  nor  tempest  shook, 
134 


DOBBS    HIS    FERRY 

Whose  name  for  aye  liad  been  good. 
Stands  newly  christened  '  Inwood/ 

And  branded  with  the  shame 
Of  some  old  rogue  who  passes 
By  dint  of  aliases, 

Afraid  of  his  own  name  ! 

"  See  how  they  quite  outrival, 
Plain  barn-yard  Spuyten  Duyvil, 

By  peacock  Riverdale, 
Which  thinks  all  else  it  conquers. 
And  over  homespun  Yonkers 

Spreads  out  its  flaunting  tail  !  -^^ 

There's  new-named  Mount  St.  Vincent,   i 
Where  each  dear  little  innocent 

Is  taught  the  Popish  rites; 
Well,  ain't  it  queer,  wherever 
These  saints  possess  the  river 

They  get  the  finest  sites  ! 

"They've  named  a  place  for  Irving, 
A  trifle  more  deserving 

Than  your  French,  foreign  saints. 
But  if  he  has  such  mention, 
It's  past  my  comprehension 

Why  Dobbs  should  cause  complaints ; 
135 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Wrote  histories  and  sncli  things. 
About  Old  Knick  and  Dutch  things, 

Dolph  Heyligers  and  Eips ; 
But  no  old  antiquary. 
Like  him,  could  keep  a  ferry, 
V    With  all  his  authorships  ! 

"  By  aid  of  these  same  showmen. 
Some  fanciful  cognomen 

Old  Cro'nest  stock  might  bring 
As  high  as  Butter  Hill  is, 
Which,  patronized  by  Willis, 

Leaves  cards  now  as  '  Storm-King  !' 
Can't  some  poetic  swell-beau 
Rechristen  old  Crum  Elbow 

And  each  prosaic  bluff. 
Bold  Breakneck  gently  flatter. 
And  Dunderberg  bespatter. 

With  euphony  and  stuff  ! 

"'Twould  be  a  magnum  opus 
To  bury  old  Esopus 

In  Time's  sepulchral  vaults, 
Or  in  Oblivion's  deep  sea 
Submerge  renowned  Poughkeepsie, 

And  also  ancient  Paltz  ; 
136 


DOBBS    HIS    FERRY 

How  it  would  give  tliem  rapture 
Brave  Stony  Point  to  capture. 

And  make  it  face  about; 
Bid  Kliinebeck  sound  much  smoother 
Than  in  the  tongue  of  Luther, 

And  wipe  the  Catskills  out ! 

"  Well,  DoBBS  is  DoBBS,  and  faster 
Than  pitch  or  mustard  plaster 

Shall  it  stick  hereabouts. 
While  Tappan  Sea  rolls  yonder. 
Or  round  High  Torn  the  thunder 

Along  these  ramparts  shouts. 
No  corner-lot  banditti. 
Or  brokers  from  the  city — 

Like  you — "    Here  Dobbs  began 
Wildly  both  oars  to  brandish. 
As  fierce  as  old  Miles  Standish, 

Or  young  Phil  Sheridan. 

Sternwards  he  rushed — I,  ducking, 
Seized  both  his  legs,  and  chucking 

Dobbs  sideways,  splash  he  went — 
The  wherry  swayed,  then  righted. 
While  I,  somewhat  excited. 

Over  the  water  bent; 
137 


•^ 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Three  times  he  rose,  but  vainly 
I  clutched  his  form  ungainly. 

He  sank,  while  sighs  and  sobs 
Beneath  the  waves  seemed  muttered, 
And  all  the  night-winds  uttered 

In  sad  tones,  *'Dobbs  !  Dobbs  !  Dobbs  !' 

Just  then  some  giant  bowlders 
Upon  my  head  and  shoulders 

Made  sudden,  fearful  raids. 
And  on  my  face  and  forehead. 
With  din  and  uproar  horrid. 

Came  several  Palisades  ; 
I  screamed,  and  woke,  in  screaming. 
To  see,  by  gas-light's  gleaming, 

Brown's  face  above  my  bed : 
"  Why,  Jack  !  what  is  the  matter  ? 
We  heard  a  dreadful  clatter 

And  found  you  on  the  shed ! 

"It's  plain  enough,  supposing 
You  sat  there,  moon-struck,  dozing. 

Upon  the  window's  edge. 
Then  lost  yourself,  and  falling, 
Just  where  we  found  you,  sprawling. 

Struck  the  piazza  ledge; 
138 


DOBBS    HIS    FERRY 

A  Incky  hit,  old  fellow, 

Of  black  and  bine  and  yellow 

It  gives  yonr  face  a  touch. 
Yon  saved  yonr  neck,  bnt  barely; 
To  state  the  matter  fairly. 

Yon  took  a  drop  too  mnch  I" 

I  took  the  train  next  morning, 
Some  Inmps  my  nose  adorning. 

My  forehead,  sundry  knobs. 
My  ideas  slightly  wandering, 
Bnt,  as  I  went,  much  pondering 

Upon  my  night  with  Dobbs; 
Brown  thinks  it,  dear  old  sinner, 
A  case  of  "after  dinner," 

And  won't  believe  a  word; 
Talks  of  "hallucination," 
"  Laws  of  association," 

And  calls  my  tale  "absurd." 

Perhaps  it  is,  but  never, 
Say  I,  should  we  dissever 

Old  places  and  old  names; 
Guard  the  old  landmarks  truly, 
On  the  old  altars  duly 

Keep  bright  the  ancient  flames. 
139 


A 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

For  me,  the  face  of  Nature, 
No  luckless  nomenclature 

Of  grace  or  beauty  robs ; 
No,  when  of  town  I  weary, 
I'll  make  a  strike  in  Erie, 

And  buy  a  place  at  Dobbs  ! 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 
C.  B.— E.  A.  B. 

1825.      OCTOBER  10,  1875 

''Speech  is  silver — silence  gold," 
Fitly  saith  the  proverb  old ; 
Yet,  as  oft  the  craftsman's  skill 
Makes  the  fine  gold  finer  still, 
When  its  brightest  beauty  glows 
In  the  forms  his  art  bestows. 
So  the  thoughts,  whose  silent  sway 
Enles  in  all  onr  hearts  to-day, 
Haply  may  not  suffer  wrong 
If  I  weave  them  into  song. 

Only  once  in  fifty  years 
The  Golden  Wedding-day  appears; 
Like  a  guest  from  far-off  lands, 
Knocking  at  the  door  he  stands. 
Ah  !  how  few  the  happy  homes 
Where  his  tardy  footstep  comes ; 
141 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Ah  !  how  few  can  watch  and  wait 

For  a  guest  who  comes  so  late. 

Tears  are  on  his  wrinkled  cheek — 

Some  are  gone  he  fain  would  seek ; 

Smiles  are  on  his  happy  face — 

All  the  living  to  embrace  ; 

Give  him  welcome,  warm  and  bright, 

For  he  tarries  but  a  night. 

With  glad  songs  and  garlands  gay. 

Hail  the  Golden  Wedding-day. 

Golden  with  the  memories  cast 
O'er  the  still  receding  Past, 
Backward,  to  the  golden  prime 
Of  the  joyous  bridal  time. 
When,  from  younger  lips  than  now. 
Gently  breathed  the  marriage  vow. 
And  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 
Heart  in  heart,  as  side  by  side. 
Saw  the  gates  of  life  unfold 
To  the  promised  Age  of  Gold. 

Golden  with  the  noontide  ray. 
Beaming  on  their  upward  way. 
Brightening  toil  and  care  and  pain, 
Good  and  ill  and  loss  and  gain ; 
142 


A    GOLDEN    WEDDING 

Sometimes,  through  the  stormy  clond, 
Falling  tipon  faces  bowed, 
Sorrow-stricken,  in  the  dnst. 
Yet,  with  faith's  unfaltering  trust. 
Looking  from  this  earthly  shore 
For  the  loved  ones  gone  before. 
On  whose  sainted  brows,  to-day. 
Lights  of  love  and  memory  play. 

Golden  with  the  ties  that  bind 
Loves  and  friendships  here  entwined; 
Ties  of  kindred,  near  and  dear. 
Drawn  more  closely,  year  by  year, 
If  still  closer,  'twill  be  well  ; 
Never  doubt  that  ''blood  will  tell." 
Let  it  tell  of  duties  done. 
Trials  met  and  victories  won — 
Loyal  work  for  God  and  man. 
Crowded  into  life's  short  span — 
What  are  all  things  worth  beside 
Gold  that  in  the  fire  is  tried  ? 

Golden  in  the  hopes  whose  light 
Makes  life's  evening  calm  and  bright ; 
Here  are  home's  endearing  charms. 
Love's  encircling,  sheltering  arms; 
143 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

All  that  best  old  age  attends — 
"Honor,  love,  and  troops  of  friends," 
Yet  the  brightest  prospect  lies. 
Past  the  bound  of  earthly  skies; 
Home  still  fairer,  love  more  fond. 
Blessings  here  and  bliss  beyond ! 

Thns,  in  these  October  days. 
Bright  with  Autumn's  fleeting  blaze. 
As  from  this  sweet  solitude. 
Looking  forth,  in  tranquil  mood, 
Bride  and  bridegroom  still,  in  heart. 
Linked  by  ties  that  never  part. 
Watch  the  sun's  declining  light, 
And,  beyond  the  western  height. 
See  his  parting  glories  spread 
Near  and  wide  and  overhead. 
Through  the  sunset's  golden  glow, 
Far  around,  above,  below. 
All  things  whisper  with  delight— 
"Earth  how  fair  and  heaven  how  bright 


A    SILVER    WEDDING 

B.  F.  B.— E.  G.  B. 

1855.      NOVEMBER  8,  1880 

Oft  in  other  days  and  climes 

Have  I  heard  the  silver  chimes 

Of  some  high  catliedral  tower, 

Ringing  out  the  passing  hour, 

With  their  soft  and  rhythmic  flow, 

Like  a  streamlet  murmuring  low, 

Rising,  swelling,  clear  and  strong. 

Soaring  like  a  seraph's  song. 

Caught  from  some  bright  sphere  on  high, 

Chanted  between  Earth  and  Sky. 

From  the  lofty  tower  of  Time 
Rings  to-night  a  silver  chime, 
Down  the  years  its  murmur  swells. 
The  melody  of  marriage  bells; 
Round  this  roof-tree  softly  floats 
The  ripple  of  its  dulcet  notes, 
K  145 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Bringing  back  with  memories  bright 
Visions  of  the  wedding-night; 
Sweetest  thoughts  their  music  lend, 
Vows  are  plighted,  prayers  ascend. 
Love's  gay  carols  fill  the  air. 
While  the  young  and  happy  pair 
Pass  the  gate  of  wedded  life, 
Bride  and  bridegroom — man  and  wife. 

As  the  day  comes  round  again, 
In  the  garland  woven  then. 
Worn  through  all  the  changing  years, 
Not  a  withered  leaf  appears ; 
Still  with  bridegroom  and  with  bride 
Peace  and  trust  and  joy  abide. 
Bright  love's  dawning,  but  more  bright 
Is  its  calm,  meridian  height ; 
Now  as  then,  along  their  way 
Brightest  lights  of  friendship  play, 
Earest  joy,  their  children  stand 
Round  them,  an  unbroken  band ; 
Manly  forms  are  by  their  side. 
Sons  well  worth  a  parent's  pride. 
Shapely  arrows,  straight  and  strong. 
Of  whom  saith  the  Psalmist's  song, 
146 


A    SILVER    WEDDING 

Happy  is  the  man  who  sees 
His  own  quiver  full  of  these. 
Blessings  be  on  all  the  boys 
In  their  struggles,  toils,  and  joys. 
Here  or  absent,  everywhere, 
May  their  lives  be  true  and  fair. 
True  to  manhood's  lofty  trust. 
Loyal,  patient,  brave,  and  just. 
Blessings  too  on  her  who  clings 
Underneath  these  sheltering  wings, 
As  a  nestling  flower  which  grows 
Screened  from  every  wind  that  blows. 
Father's  love  and  mother's  care 
Long  may  this  sweet  flowret  share, 
Wealth  of  brother's  love  untold, 
AVreathed  and  woven  sevenfold. 

In  this  happy  time  and  place, 
As  our  thoughts  the  Past  retrace, 
Ah,  what  vanished  forms  are  these 
Crowding  all  our  memories  ! 
Loved  and  loving,  lost  to  sight. 
All  are  with  us  here  to-night. 
Close  beside  us  where  we  stand 
Joy  and  Grief  come  hand  in  hand. 
147 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

If  on  Joy's  too  radiant  brow 
Grief  must  cast  her  shadow  now, 
Yet  on  Griefs  pale  cheek  will  fall 
Joy's  soft  beam  that  shines  for  all, 
And  their  faces  both  are  bright. 
Lit  with  Love's  undying  light. 

Him  our  reverent  thoughts  recall. 
Dear  to  many,  known  of  all. 
In  whose  name  such  memories  blend. 
Sire  and  grandsire,  father,  friend. 
Two  and  twenty  years  to-day 
Since  he  left  his  house  of  clay. 
Yet  how  near  he  seems  to-night. 
Voice  as  tender,  eye  as  bright. 
All  the  pure  and  saintly  grace, 
All  the  charm  of  form  and  face. 
All  the  love  his  heart  could  give. 
All  his  life,  with  us  still  live. 

And  one  living  sire  we  greet. 
Gracing  here  the  patriarch's  seat ; 
Honors  fitly  won  and  worn 
Well  his  veteran  brow  adorn. 
Master  of  the  healing  art. 
Wise  in  counsel,  warm  in  heart, 
148 


A    SILVER   WEDDING 

In  whose  genial  nature  glows 
Summer  sun  through  winter  snows. 
Long  may  heavenly  Love  delay 
The  sunset  of  his  golden  day ! 

Thus  do  Memory^s  silver  chimes 
Chant  our  sad,  our  joyous  times ; 
Soft  the  note  of  sadness  falls. 
Loud  the  happy  chorus  calls. 
And  we  linger,  nothing  loth. 
While  we  listen  to  them  both, 
Catching  in  their  sweet  refrain. 
Borne  on  each  receding  strain, 
As  they  faint  and  fainter  grow. 
This  sweet  lesson  they  bestow. 
That  these  earthly  ties  of  love 
Have  their  source,  their  end,  above. 

Here  the  seed,  the  germ,  the  shoot. 
There  the  ripe  and  perfect  fruit ; 
Here  the  bud  that  blooms  an  hour, 
There  the  bright,  consummate  flower  ; 
Here  scant  joys  and  sorrows  rude. 
There  the  full  beatitude  ; 
Here  brief  days  that  bring  the  night, 
There  unending  love  and  light ! 
149 


IN    MEMOEIAM.     T.  S.  K. 

0  RAKE  and  radiant  life,  whose  mission  here, 

Like  some    strong   Angel's,   winged  with    love 
divine, 
Waited  on  human  woe,  to  heal  and  cheer. 

What  high,  unselfish,  tireless  zeal  was  thine  ; 
To  fan,  with  tender  care,  the  flickering  spark 

Of  waning  reason  and  the  shattered  will, 
To  find  the  missing  clew,  where  all  was  dark, 

And  guide  to  hope  and  light  with  patient  skill ; 
True  pity  thine  which  clasped  each  clouded  heart, 

Nor  on  the  lowliest  ever  looked  askant. 
Swaying  distempered  minds  with  sovereign  art. 

Gentle  as  woman,  firm  as  adamant; 
Nor  less  shall  memory  keep  the  tranquil  grace 

Of  look  and  tone  and  bearing,  staid  and  calm. 
The  sweet  serenity  of  form  and  face. 

Home's   dearest    solace,   friendship's    kindliest 
balm. 

150 


IN    M  E  M  0  R I A  M.     T.  S.  K. 

By  this  new  grave  no  broken  shaft  we  rear, 
Thy  finished  work  has  followed  thee  above, 

One  step  from  duty,  midst  the  shadows  here. 
To  the  full  sunshine  of  eternal  Love  ! 

Christmas,  1883 


COLUMBUS 

1493 — OCTOBER  21 — 1893 

Westward  Columbus  steered,  while,  day  by  day. 
On  Toscanelli's  chart  he  traced  the  way 
Across  the  Sea  of  Darkness,  to  Cathay. 

Sure  of  his  goal  where  others  dimly  guessed. 
No  doubt  disturbed  him  in  his  certain  quest 
For  the  known  Orient  in  the  unknown  West. 

If  Asia  girds  the  solid  globe  around. 

With  its  vast  bulk,  somewhere  its  Eastern  bound 

Beyond  the  untracked  Ocean  must  be  found. 

His  day-dream  this,  through  all  the  weary  strain 
Of  hope  deferred  and  succor  sought  in  vain. 
The  slights  of  sovereigns  and  the  world's  disdain. 

No  day-dream  now  ;   Santa  Maria's  keel 
Ploughs  the  main  sea  to  shores  that  shall  reveal 
New  realms  for  Christ,  Columbus,  and  Castille. 
153 


COLUMBUS 

There,  at  his  totich,  shall  India's  gates  nnfold, 

As  in  the  tale  that  Marco  Polo  told, 

The  Magi's  wealth  of  spices,  gems,  and  gold. 

Himself  the  lord  of  all  the  vast  domain. 
Viceroy  of  vassal  kingdoms,  won  for  Spain, 
Trophies,  unmatched,  of  Isabella's  reign. 

Then   shall   his   vow    be    paid,  with   unsheathed 

sword. 
To  lead,  beneath  the  banner  of  his  Lord, 
A  new  crusade  against  the  Moslem  horde. 

What  though  his  scattered  barks  are  tossed  and 

blown 
By  every  wind  that  sweeps  the  storm-girt  zone. 
And  all  hearts  fail  for  fear,  except  his  own  ; 

"While  traitorous  lips  on  each  frail  caravel 
Curse  the  mad  whim  which  lured,  with   wizard 

spell. 
To  outer  darkness  and  the  jaws  of  Hell ; 

Fixed  as  the  polar  star,  above  the  swarm 
Of  craven  comrades,  towers  his  lofty  form. 
Steadfast,  immovable,  in  calm  and  storm. 
153 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

His  boundless  faith,  like  the  broad  sea  he  sailed. 
Compassed  with  clouds,  with  angry  blasts  assailed, 
Was  fed  by  mighty  streams  which  never  failed. 

His  hour  of  eager  hope,  when  through  the  night, 
On  his  lone  watch,  a  far-off,  flickering  light 
Flashed,  like  a  beacon,  on  his  startled  sight. 

His  hour  of  triumph,  when  the  air  was  stirred 
"With  scented  breeze  and  wing  of  forest  bird, 
And  from  aloft  the  cry  of  ''Land  !"  was  heard. 

But  not  the  land  he  sought ;  how  strange  the  lot 
By  Fortune  cast,  his  one  bright  page  to  blot; 
He  found  the  New  World  and  he  knew  it  not ! 

Nor  ever  Tcneiv ;  the  throne  of  Kubla  Khan 
Four  times  he  sought  and  then,  beneath  the  ban 
Of  failure,  died — a  broken-hearted  man. 

The  shores  he  gained  were  Asia's  shores  to  him ; 
His  later  cup  of  Fame,  filled  to  the  brim, 
He  tasted  not,  nor  even  touched  the  rim. 

But  though  he  walked  not  in  the  full-orbed  light 
Of  his  own  fame,  and  died  without  its  sight. 
Yet  was  he  first  in  time  and  first  in  right — 
154 


COLUMBUS 

The  great  Discoverer — whose  soul  of  flame 
Lighted  the  path  for  all  who  ever  came 
To   this   New   World,  which   should    have    borne 
his  name. 

Judge   not    by   what   he   thought,  but   what   he 

did, 
AYhen,  once  for  all,  he  rent  the  veil  that  hid 
The  Toltec  shrine  from  Egypt's  pyramid. 

And  entering  in,  the  first  of  Pioneers, 
For  all  Mankind  and  all  the  coming  years. 
Set  face  to  face  the  sundered  Hemispheres. 

'Not  for  Castille  and  Leon's  narrow  bound, 
Nor  for  Grenada's  sovereigns,  doubly  crowned, 
Was  the  new  Western  World  Columbus  found. 

Nor  to  the  ancient  Empires,  crushed  and  rent 
By  wars  and  kingcraft,  was  his  life-work  spent 
To  add  another  blood-stained  Continent  : 

Nor  yet  to  plant  anew  his  Latin  race, 

Whose  conquering  march,  with   fire   and   sword, 

we  trace 
From  Cuba's  capes  to  Chimborazo's  base, 
155 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Where  Nature's  sunlit  sky  and  tropic  hue 
From  distant  Spain  the  bold  adventurers  drew 
To  graft  the  Old  World  stock  upon  the  New. 

Northward,  the  issue  of  his  work  outran 

These   narrow   bounds,  to    shape   the    unfolding 

plan 
That  to  its  goal  uplifts  the  race  of  Man. 

In  grander  realms  than  Cortes'  iron  hand 
Snatched  from  the  Aztecs,  or  Pizarro's  band 
From  captive  Incas  wrung,  with  sword  and  brand. 

To  plant  a  New  World  State,  full  armed  to  cope 
With  Old  World  wrongs  and  girt  with  amplest 

scope 
For  every  human  need  and  human  hope. 

Where   all   that   Toil   has   gained,  or  Truth  has 

taught. 
And  all  the  victories  won  where  Freedom  fought. 
Forever  crown  the  work  Columbus  wrought. 

And  if,  to-day,  it  is  our  right  to  claim 
The  full  inheritance  of  his  great  fame 
And  bid  the  whole  World  welcome  in  his  name, 
156 


COLUMBUS 

Blent  with  our  loftiest  note  of  praise  shall  soar — 
A  distant  echo  from  a  far-off  shore — 
His  first  Te  Deum  at  San  Salvador. 


OLD  AND  NEW 

THE  CENTURY  ASSOCIATION 

1847 — JANUARY   13 — 1897 

Is  that  oft  uttered  adage  true — 
"The  Old  is  better  than  the  New"— 
Old  ways,  old  wines,  old  friends,  old  books. 
The  ancient  haunts,  the  time-worn  nooks 
With  Memory's  twilight  overcast, 
Where  visions  of  a  vanished  Past 
Bring  back,  in  all  its  mellow  glow. 
The  Golden  Age  of  long  ago  ? 

Or  is  it  wiser  to  be  told — 
''The  New  is  better  than  the  Old  "— 
New  schemes,  new  arts,  new  creeds,  new  men. 
New  themes  for  pencil,  tongue,  and  pen. 
New  depths,  new  heights,  where  Thought  ex- 
plores. 
Or  Science  delves,  or  Genius  soars, 
While  the  New  Woman  leads  the  van. 
New  crowned  with  all  the  rights  of  Man  ? 
158 


OLD    AND    NEW 

To-uight  our  golden  milestone  stands 
A  mark  between  two  border  lands ; 
A  point  where  parting  ways  divide. 
With  "Old"  and  ''New"  on  either  side  ; 
The  New  with  eager  hope  Ave  grasp. 
Yet  keep  the  Old  with  tender  clasp ; 
As  some  worn  pilgrim  in  his  quest 
Stops  by  a  wayside  shrine  to  rest. 
Before  the  sacred  symbols  bows, 
And  tells  his  beads  and  breathes  his  vows. 
We  pause  to-night  and  linger  here 
To  count  our  decades,  year  by  year. 
Till  as  the  lengthened  lines  unfold 
A  full  half  century  is  told. 

One  longing,  backward  glance  we  cast, 
A  search-light  through  the  midnight  Past, 
Eevealing  in  its  quickening  rays 
The  friendships  of  departed  days. 
While  Fancy's  gleam  and  Memory's  grace 
Kestore  each  once  familiar  face; 
A  silent  multitude — and  thus 
No  message  comes  from  them  to  us. 
Yet,  like  a  tuneful  requiem, 
A  greeting  goes  from  us  to  them — 
159 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

"Hail,  Comrades  all !"  from  lip  to  lip. 
This  pledge  of  old  companionship. 
From  heart  to  heart,  this  whisper  low, 
Forth  through  the  wintry  night  shall  flow. 
From  star  to  star,  from  space  to  space, 
To  some  diviner  dwelling-place. 

Foremost  before  my  mental  sight 
Three  noble  forms  appear  to-night; 
Chieftains  of  our  Centurion  band. 
Like  David's  mightiest  three  they  stand 
(Those  heroes  without  spot  or  stain 
To  whom  the  rest  could  not  attain). 
And  of  what  time  they  ruled  of  old 
Our  Book  of  Chronicles  has  told. 

And  first,  the  grave  and  genial  Sage 
Whose  judgments  on  the  stately  page 
Of  sovereign  Law  still  rule  to-day 
And  all  unchallenged  hold  their  sway ; 
Fit  with  the  worthiest  to  stand 
Of  his  ancestral  Fatherland, 
He  loved  with  ours  his  life  to  blend. 
In  evening  hours  a  fireside  friend. 
And  gave  the  world,  with  patient  toil. 
Fresh  flowers  of  thought  from  ancient  soil, 
160 


OLD    AND    NEW 

Fair  garlands  which  entwine  his  name, 
In  lasting  bands,  with  Shakespear's  fame. 

And  next,  with  aspect  calm,  severe. 
Our  Poet,  Oracle  and  Seer, 
Of  whom  to  sing,  my  faltering  lines 
Shonld  catch  the  breath  of  forest  pines. 
The  mnsic  of  the  mountain  rills. 
And  strength  of  the  eternal  hills; 
Who  taught,  in  loftiest  speech  and  song, 
The  love  of  Eight,  the  hate  of  Wrong, 
Who  stood,  in  all  the  storm  and  stress 
Of  evil  days,  for  Eighteousness ; 
Whose  hand  upheld  the  hand  that  gave 
The  gift  of  Freedom  to  the  Slave ; 
Nor  lost  in  his  declining  days 
The  Minstrel's  skill,  the  prophet's  gaze. 
And  tuned  to  breathe  our  Mother-tongue 
The  sounding  harp  that  Homer  strung. 

Last  of  the  three,  and  latest  spared 
In  the  long  life  which  once  he  shared 
With  us,  in  manhood's  fullest  prime, 
Undimmed  by  age,  untouched  by  Time, 
With  insight  keen  and  courage  bold 
The  truth  to  seek  and  sift  and  hold, 
L  161 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

The  kindling  eye,  the  thrilling  tone, 
The  cordial  grasp,  were  all  his  own; 
Scholar  and  Statesman,  on  whose  brow 
A  world-wide  homage  hovers  now ; 
To  him  the  Mnse  of  History  brought, 
With  brightening  face,  the  task  he  wrought 
To  trace,  beneath  her  guiding  hand. 
The  annals  of  his  native  Land, 
And  in  majestic  outlines  draw 
The  forms  of  Liberty  and  Law. 

Nor  shall  these  honored  memories  die 

As  days  glide  on  and  years  go  by; 

As  once  from  Athens'  lofty  crown 

The  sculptured  gods  of  Greece  looked  down 

To  guard  the  mariners  who  gave 

Their  barks  to  the  -^Egean  wave, 

They  watch  us  still  as  sailing  on 

We  leave  behind  our  Parthenon. 

To-night  we  shape  our  course  once  more 

Where  Life's  broad  ocean  spreads  before ; 

Some    with    stanch    keels    for    storms    and 

blasts. 
Some  with  rent  sails  and  shattered  masts ; 
Some  with  full-freighted  argosies 
And  canvas  spread  for  Fortune's  breeze ; 
162 


OLD    AND    NEW 

Some  strained  and  bent  and  worn  away 
By  Time's  invisible  decay ; 
Yet  may  it  be  for  every  one 
As  to  that  brave  Centurion, 
When  to  his  wind-swept  deck  he  clung 
And  to  the  waves  the  tackling  flung, 
In  the  wild  hour  of  wreck  to  hear. 
Above  the  storm,  this  word  of  cheer 
From  Faith's  inspired,  prophetic  lip, 
"No  loss  but  only  of  the  ship  V 


OUK    FIFTY-FIFTH 

1843— MAY  27 — 1897 

Our  Fifty-fifth  !    Since  first,  in  '43, 

Proud  to  possess  a  Bachelor's  degree 

And   flushed   with   triumphs   of   Commencement 

Day 
We  sought,  downtown,  at  Barclay  and  Broadway, 
The  old  "  American,"  by  Cozzens  kept- 
Long  since  to  ruin  and  oblivion  swept — 
And  there,  with   speech  and    song   and  all  good 

cheer. 
Pledged  one  another  that  each  coming  year. 
Gathered  around  the  festive  board,  should  see 
The  unexampled  Class  of  '43. 

That   day   and    this   long   years   have    rolled   be 

tween. 
Our  thirty-two  have  dwindled  to  thirteen, 
And  yet  the  pledge  we  gave  as  youngsters  then 
Has  been  well  kept  and  now  nine  loyal  men, 
164 


OUR    FIFTY-FIFTH 

True  to  its  mandate,  gather  as  of  yore. 
Send  our  best  greetings  to  the  absent  four. 
Relight  the  camp-fire  as  in  earlier  days. 
Fan  its  faint  embers  into  heat  and  blaze. 
And  call  the  roll  which  grimly  seems  to  say, 
"The  boys  of  old  are  grandsires  of  to-day." 
Too  true  ;  we  linger  waiting  on  the  shore 
From  which  our  comrades  all  have  gone  before. 
With  short  farewells,  and   while    their  forms  we 

miss 
We  gaze  beyond  to  brighter  scenes  than  this. 

Here   as    old    friendships    breathe    their    ancient 

vows. 
And  lights  of  Memory  bathe  our  wrinkled  brows, 
No  place  is  left  for  sighs  or  vain  regrets, 
The  Star  of  Being  never  pales  or  sets  ; 
Old  age  is  not  life  spent,  but  life  j^ossessed, 
The  golden  grain  in  the  full  measure  pressed 
And  overflowing  in  its  ample  store. 
So  that  to  him  who  hath  is  given  more. 
"  Happy  the  man,"  the  Roman  bard  could  say, 
"  Whose    word    at    night    is   '  I   have    lived    to- 
day !' " 
In  Life's  calm  evening,  happier  still  is  he 
Who  can  exclaim,  "I  hold  the  Past  in  fee." 
165 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

For  us  what  wealth   these  vanished   years   have 

brought 
lu  all  the  spheres  of  Earthly  deed  and  thought ; 
In  great  events  that  still  our  memories   stir. 
All  which  we  saw,  and  part  of  which  we  were  ; 
In  the  strange  marvels  of  inventive  skill. 
In  succor  brought  to  every  woe  and  ill. 
In  all  the  onward  march  of  Truth  and  Right, 
In  Slavery  slain  in  Freedom's  deadliest  fight. 
In  the  new  dawn  whose  radiant  promise  lights 
Our  Alma  Mater  on  her  regal  Heights, 
In    Thought's    unfettered    flight    and    boundless 

scope, 
In  all  the  loftier  reach  of  human  hope. 
And  grand  unfoldings  of  the  perfect  plan 
Of  Love  Divine  for  all  the  Race  of  Man. 
Nor  least,  to-night,  the  hidden  treasure  grasped 
As  eye  meets  eye  and  hand  in  hand  is  clasped ; 
Untouched  by  Time,  its  lustre  all  undimmed. 
Our  loving-cup  with  its  full  wealth  is  brimmed  ; 
Safe  for  the  future,  if  we  meet  or  part. 
Kept  in  the  inmost  shrine  of  every  heart ; 
Come  good  or  evil  days,  come  peace  or  strife, 
Come  gain  or  bitter  loss,  come  death  or  life. 
Whatever  change  may  be,  or  chance  befall. 
This  bond  of  friendship  shall  survive  them  all  ! 
166 


UHLAND 
WITH  TEANSLATIONS 


UHLAND 

It  is  the  poet  Uhland,  from  whose  wreathings 

Of  rarest  harmony  I  here  repeat. 
In  lower  tones  and  less  melodious  breathings. 

Some  simple   strains  where   truth  and  j)assion 
meet. 

His  is  the  poetry  of  sweet  expression. 

Of  clear,  unfaltering  tune,  serene  and  strong  ; 

Where  gentlest  thoughts  and  words,  in  soft  pro- 
cession. 
Move  to  the  even  measures  of  his  song. 

Delighting  ever  in  his  own  calm  fancies. 

He    sees   much    beauty  where    most    men    see 
naught, 
Looking  at  Nature  with  familiar  glances. 

And    weaving    garlands     in     the     groves     of 
Thought. 

169 


UHLAND 

He  sings  of  Youth,  and  Hope,  and  high  Endeavor, 
He  sings  of  Love — the  crown  of  Poesy ! — 

Of  Fate,  and  Sorrow,  and  the  Grave,  forever 
The  end  of  strife,  the  goal  of  Destiny. 

He  sings  of  Fatherland,  the  minstrel's  glory. 
High  theme  of  memory  and  hope  divine. 

Twining  its  fame  with  gems  of  antique  story. 
In  Suahian  songs  and  legends  of  the  Rhine ; 

In  ballads  breathing  many  a  dim  tradition. 
Nourished  in  long  belief,  or  minstrel  rhymes. 

Fruit  of  the  old  Eomance,  whose  gentle  mission 
Passed  from  the  earth  before  our  wiser  times. 

Well  do  they  know  his  name  among  the  moun- 
tains. 
And  plains,  and  valleys  of  his  native  land ; 
Part  of  their  nature  are  the  sparkling  fountains 
Of    his    clear    thought,   with    rainbow   fancies 
spanned. 

His  simple  lays  oft  sings  the  mother  cheerful, 
Beside  the  cradle,  in  the  dim  twilight ; 

His  plaintive  notes  low  breathes  the  maiden  tearful 
With  tender  murmurs  in  the  ear  of  Night. 
170 


UHLAND 

The  hillside  swain,  the  reaper  in  the  meadows, 
Carol  his  ditties  through  the  toilsome  day  ; 

And  the  lone  hunter  in  the  Alpine  shadows 
Recalls  his  ballads  by  some  ruin  gray. 

0  precious  gift !  0  wondrous  inspiration ! 

Of  all  high  deeds,  of  all  harmonious  things, 
To  be  the  oracle,  while  a  whole  nation 

Catches  the  echo  from  the  sounding  strings. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  feeling  and  emotion 
Rises  the  orb  of  song,  serenely  bright. 

As  who  beholds,  across  the  tracts  of  ocean. 
The  golden  sunrise  bursting  into  light. 

Wide  is  its  magic  world — divided  neither 
By  continent,  nor  sea,  nor  narrow  zone  ; 

Who  would  not  wish  sometimes  to  travel  thither. 
In  fancied  fortunes  to  forget  his  own  ! 

1846 


THE   BEGGAK 

A  BEGGAR  through  the  world  so  wide, 

I  wauder  all  alone  ; 
Yet  once  a  brighter  fate  Avas  mine. 

In  days  that  long  have  flown. 

Within  my  father's  house  I  grew, 

A  happy  child  and  free  ; 
But  ah  !  the  heritage  of  want 

Is  all  he  left  to  me. 

The  gardens  of  the  rich  I  view. 
The  fields  with  bounty  spread  ; 

My  path  is  through  the  fruitless  Avay 
Where  toil  and  sorrow  tread. 

And  yet,  amidst  the  joyous  throng, 

The  Joys  of  all  I  share. 

With  willing  heart  I  wait,  and  hide 

My  secret  load  of  care. 
172 


THE    BEGGAR 

0  blessed  God  !  I  am  not  left 

An  exile  from  thy  love  ; 
On  all  the  world  thy  smiles  descend 

In  mercy  from  above. 

In  every  valley  still  I  find 
The  temples  of  thy  grace, 

Where  organ  notes  and  choral  songs 
With  music  fill  the  place. 

For  me  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars, 

Reveal  their  holy  rays, 
And  when  the  vespers  call  to  prayer. 

My  heart  ascends  in  praise. 

Some  time  I  know  the  gates  of  bliss 

Will  open  to  the  blest. 
And  I,  in  marriage  garments  clad, 

Shall  rise  a  welcome  guest. 


THE  SHEPHEKD 

Beneath  the  palace  of  the  king 

The  gentle  shepherd  went; 
The  lady  looked  with  longing  eyes 

Down  from  the  battlement. 

She  threw  to  him  a  gentle  word — 

'^  Would  I  might  go  to  thee, 
Where  on  the  plain  the  snow-white  flocks. 

And  bright  red  flowers  I  see !" 

Thereto  the  shepherd  made  reply — 

"  0,  wonldst  thou  come  to  me. 
More  white  would  gleam  those  arms  of  thine. 

More  bright  thy  cheeks  would  be  I" 

And  now  each  morn  with  lingering  step. 

Still  as  he  passed  the  place. 
He  looked  with  earnest  eyes  until 

He  saw  the  lady's  face. 
174 


THE    SHEPHERD 

"  0  welcome  !  -welcome  !  princess  fair/ 

Then  cried  he  joyfully ; 
And  soft  her  gentle  answer  fell — 

"  Sweet  shepherd,  thanks  to  thee." 

The  winter  fled,  the  spring  appeared, 
The  flowers  were  fresh  and  fair. 

The  shepherd  by  the  palace  came. 
The  lady  was  not  there. 

Sadly  his  welcome  strove  to  rise. 

Sadly  the  echo  fell. 
And  soft  a  spirit  whisper  sighed — 

"  Sweet  shepherd,  fare  thee  well." 


THE  MOURNFUL   TOURNAMENT 

With  shield  and  spear  apace  they  ride, 
Seven  knights  all  true  and  bold, 

For  the  king's  fair  daughter 
A  tournament  to  hold. 

Hark  !  the  bells  are  tolling,  tolling. 

Over  the  castle  wall ; 
As  they  enter,  see  the  tapers 

Burning  in  the  lofty  hall. 

Sweet  Adelheid,  the  princess  fair, 
Lietli  in  death's  cold  sleep ; 

At  her  head  the  old  king  watches, 
Watches  but  to  weep. 

Then  out  spake  proud  Degenwerth — 

"  Loud  must  I  complain  ; 
Vainly  have  I  girt  my  steed. 

Borne  shield  and  spear  in  vain." 
176 


THE    MOURNFUL    TOURNAMENT 

Answered  him  young  Adalbert — 
*^  There  needs  not  this  lament. 

The  daughter  of  the  king  is  worth 
Always  a  tournament." 


Quoth  bold  Sir  Walther  :  "  Rather  far 
Our  steps  be  homeward  led  ; 

Small  honor  waits  to  crown  their  war 
Who  battle  for  the  dead." 

Cried  Adelbert  :  "  Well  is  she  dead  ; 

There  liveth  none  so  fair 
To  wear  her  wreath  of  roses  red. 

Her  golden  ring  to  wear." 

Forthwith  these  seven  knights  so  bold 

Rode  out  upon  the  plain  ; 
Hard  was  the  strife,  until,  at  last. 

Six  of  the  seven  were  slain. 

The  seventh  was  young  Adelbert, 

The  victor  over  all, 
He  lighted  pale  from  off  his  steed. 

And  paced  the  lofty  hall. 

177 


UHLAND 

He  took  the  wreath  of  roses  red. 

The  golden  ring  as  well. 
Then  quickly  by  the  maiden's  side, 

As  pale  as  she,  he  fell. 

Hark !  the  bells  are  tolling,  tolling — 

Wrapt  in  funeral  weeds, 
To  the  grave  the  heroes  slain. 

The  mournful  monarch  leads ; 

And  with  the  conquering  knight  they  bear 

The  gentle  Adelheid, 
Beneath  one  stone,  in  the  cool  earth 

To  slumber  side  by  side. 


THE  NUN 

In  the  silent  cloister  garden 
Walked  a  maiden  pale  and  young  ; 

Sadly  shone  the  moon  above  her. 
On  her  eyelash  sparkling  hung 

A  tear  —  't  was  for  her  lover, 

"  Yet  't  was  well,  my  own  beloved, 
Well  that  thou  hast  gone  above  ; 

Now  my  heart  is  thine  and  purely, 
For  an  angel  I  may  love. 

And  thou  art  an  angel  surely/' 

Thus  with  weary  steps  she  wandered. 
Till  she  reached  the  sacred  place 

Where  the  Virgin,  pure  and  lowly. 
Stood  with  features  full  of  grace. 

In  the  moonlight,  calm  and  holy. 
179 


UHLAND 

At  her  feet  the  maiden  falleth. 
Looking  upward  to  the  skies  ; 

In  the  morning  there  they  found  her. 
Closed  in  death  her  gentle  eyes, 

And  the  black  veil  wrapped  around  her. 


THE   SHEPHERD'S   SABBATH   SONG 

See,  the  Sabbath  of  the  Lord 

Sheds  its  holy  beams  abroad ; 

At  the  breaking  of  the  day. 

In  the  fields  afar  I  stray. 

Through  the  distance,  soft  and  clear, 

Hark !  the  matin  bells  I  hear. 

Silently  in  prayer  I  kneel. 
Gently  o'er  my  spirit  steal 
Holy  awe  and  tender  grief. 
And  a  sacred,  calm  relief  ; 
Lord  !  how  many  seen  by  thee 
Are  there  kneeling  now  with  me  ! 

Lo  !  the  heavens  near  and  far 
Full  of  light  and  beauty  are. 
Seeming  ready  to  reveal 
All  the  glories  they  conceal  ; 
Thus  the  Sabbath  of  the  Lord 
Sheds  its  holy  beams  abroad  ! 
181 


THE  LANDLADY'S   DAUGHTER 

There  rode  through  the  country  three  gallants 

so  fine, 
They  came  to  the  Landlady,  hard  by  the  Ehine. 

"  Landlady,  hast  thou  good  ale  and  good  wine  ? 
And  how  is  that  beautiful  daughter  of  thine  ?" 

"  My  ale  and  my  wine  are  fresh  and  clear, 

But  my  dear  little  daughter  lies  dead  on  her  bier." 

And  when  they  were  come  to  the  chamber  within, 
All  cold  in  her  coffin,  the  maiden  was  seen. 

The  first,  from  her  face  the  death-veil  he  took. 
And  looked  at  her  long  with  a  sorrowful  look ; 

"  0,  would  thou  wert  living,  wert  living  !"  he  said, 
"Henceforth   I   had   loved  thee,  thou   beautiful 
maid." 

182 


THE    LANDLADY'S    DAUGHTER 

But  the  second,  he  covers  the  face  once  more. 
Then  turns  from  the  sight  and  weepeth  sore ; 

"  Ah  !  cold  as  thou  liest  there  on  thy  bier, 

I  have  loved  thee,  fair  maiden,  for  many  a  year.' 

But  quickly  the  third,  he  raises  the  veil, 
And  kisses  her  mouth,  so  pale,  so  pale  ; 

"I  always  have  loved  thee,  I  love  thee  to-day. 
And  I  swear  I  will  love  thee,  for  ever  and  aye  !' 


THE  WEEATH 

A  CHILD  through  sunny  meadows  strolled. 
And  plucked  the  blossoms  there ; 

A  lady  from  the  forest  came — 
A  lady  wondrous  fair. 

She  wove  a  garland  for  the  child. 

And  twined  it  on  her  brow  ; 
"  0  wear  it  ever,  it  will  bloom. 

Although  it  blooms  not  now." 

Years  fled,  and  when  the  maiden  walked 

Sadly,  the  moon  beneath, 
Weeping  her  earliest  tears,  there  came 

A  blossom  on  the  wreath. 

And  when  within  her  lover's  arms 

A  happy  bride  she  stood. 
How  sweet  and  precious  was  the  flower 

That  burst  the  opening  bud ! 
184 


THE    WREATH 

Soon  with  a  mother's  fearful  joy, 
She  clasped  a  gentle  child, 

And  through  the  garland's  leafy  sheen 
Mnch  golden  fruit  there  smiled. 

Alas  !  her  love  went  sadly  down. 
Lost  in  the  cold,  dark  grave  ; 

Now  wild  in  her  dishevelled  hair 
The  leaves  of  antnmn  wave. 

She  died — yet  still,  on  her  pale  brow. 

The  faithful  garland  wore. 
When,  wonderful  to  see,  behold. 

Both  fruit  and  flowers  it  bore  ! 


THE  MINSTEEL'S   CURSE 

In"  ancient  times   a   castle   stood,  so  proud  and 

loftily, 
Across   the  land  its   splendor   shone,  across  the 

deep  blue  sea ; 
Fair    gardens    bloomed    around    where    precious 

odors  slept. 
And   in    the  rainbows    gleaming,    the    sparkling 

fountains  leapt. 

There  reigned  a  fearful  monarch,  for  lands  and 

wars  renowned. 
Pale   on  his  throne  he  sat,  with    cruel  purpose 

crowned ; 
Fierce  passion  clothed  his  thoughts  and  mingled 

with  his  breath. 
For  all  his  glance  was  terror,  and  all  his  words 

were  death. 

186 


THE    MINSTREL'S    CURSE 

Unto  tins   lordly  castle   two   minstrels   came   one 

day, 
One  fair,  with  golden  locks,  the  other  worn   and 

gray— 
The  old  man  with  his   harp,  in   all   a  minstrel's 

pride, 
Eode  on  his  gallant  steed,  while  walked  the  youth 

beside. 

Out  spake  the  aged  harper  :  '^  Make  ready  now, 
my  son. 

Call  all  your  powers  together,  and  tune  your 
loftiest  tone  ; 

Bid  all  your  songs  of  joy  or  grief  once  more  to 
memory  start, 

For  we  perchance  this  day  may  move  the  mon- 
arch's stony  heart." 

Now  stand  these  gentle  minstrels  the  lofty  hall 

within, 
Upon   his    throne    the    monarch   sits,  and  by  his 

side  the  queen  ; 
He   clothed    in   fearful   splendor,   as  gleams  the 

Northern  Night, 
She    smiling   soft   and    mild,  as    beams    the   full 

moonlight. 

187 


UHLAND 

The  old   man  strikes   the   sounding   chords,  and 

clear,  and  still  more  clear. 
The   tides  of  music   gush,  and  break  upon   the 

ear. 
Like   echoes   from    the    grave    his    mighty   song 

ascends, 
While  heavenly  sweet,  between,  the  youth's    soft 

carol  blends. 

They  sang  of  Spring  and  Love,  the  golden  time 

of  youth. 
Of  Freedom,  Faith,  and   Hope,  of   Holiness    and 

Truth, 
Of    all    sweet    things    that    soothe,   and    loftiest 

things  that  can 
Kouse    into    hero   deeds    the   wondrous    soul    of 

man. 

The  courtiers  stand  in  circles,  they  leave  the  jest 

unsaid  ; 
The  warriors  fierce  and  grim  with  reverence  bow 

the  head  ; 
The  queen  is  roused  with  rapture,  then  sinks  in 

dreamy  rest. 
And  to  the   minstrels   throws   the   rose   from   off 

her  breast. 

188 


THE    MINSTREL'S    CURSE 

The  king  with  f  ary  trembles  ;  in  fiercest  wrath  he 

cries, 
"  Seek  you  to  charm  my  court  and  queen  before 

my  very  eyes  ?" 
Then   at    the    youth   his    sword    he    hurls,  swift 

through  his  breast  it  gleams, 
Thereout,  instead  of   golden   songs,  the   gushing 

life-blood  streams. 

As  by  a  whirlwind   driven,  the   startled   hearers 

fly. 

The  youth  within  his  master's  arms  breathes  out 
his  latest  sigh  ; 

The  old  man  wraps  his  mantle  around  the  quiv- 
ering clay. 

Then  binds  it  upright  on  his  steed  and  sadly 
goes  his  way. 

Outside    the    castle    gates,   before    the    wall    he 

stands. 
And  takes  once  more  the  wondrous  harp  within 

his  aged  hands, 
Then  on  a  marble  colnmn   dashes   the  trembling 

strings, 
And  cries  aloud  while  far  around  the  solemn  echo 

rings  : 

189 


UHLAND 

"  "Woe  to  these  halls  of   pride  !   no   more   shall 

they  resound 
With  melody  or  song,  or  music's  gentle  sound  ; 
Here    sighs    and   groans   shall   echo,  and   slavish 

footsteps  fall. 
Till  burst  the  bolts  of  Fate,  and  ruin  buries  all. 

"Woe  to  these  blooming  gardens!  in  the  soft 
light  of  May, 

Behold  this  pallid  face  from  which  the  life  has 
passed  away  ; 

Ye  blossoms  wither  at  the  sight,  ye  streams  for- 
sake your  flow. 

Give  place  to  barren  wastes  where  desert  weeds 
may  grow  ! 

'^Woe,  murderer,  to  thee!    Curse  of  the  minstrel 

name  ! 
Vain  be  thy  strivings  after  the  bloody  wreath  of 

fame  ; 
Breathed  like  a  dying  breath  into  the  empty  air, 
Thy  name  be  lost  in  silence,  the  night  of  death 

to  share." 

The  old  man's  voice  is  silent,  the  heavens  have 

heard  his  cry  ; 
Long  since,  a  heap  of  ruins,  the  lofty  turrets  lie ; 
190 


THE    MINSTREL'S    CURSE 

One  shattered  column  stands  alone  the  fatal  tide 

to  breast, 
Soon   tottering   to  its  fall,  to  moulder  with  the 

rest. 

Where  once  the  gardens  smiled  a  dreary  desert 
lies. 

No  tree  with  grateful  shadows,  no  sparkling  foun- 
tains rise, 

No  legend  tells  the  monarch's  name,  his  fame  no 
lofty  verse, 

Forsaken  and  forgotten — this  was  the  Minstrel's 
Curse  ! 


THE  THREE  SONGS 

King  Siegfried  sat  in  his  lofty  hall ; 

"Ye  minstrels,  who  sings  me  the  best  song  of 

all  ?" 
And   a   youth    stepped    forth   from    the    waiting 

band, 
His    sword   on    his    thigh,   and    his   harp   in  his 

hand. 

"Three  lays  have  I  learned;  the  first  is  a  song, 
Forgotten,  King  Siegfried,  it  may  be  too  long  ; 
'Tis — Foully  by  thee  my  brother  was  slain, 
Ay,  foully  by  thee — I  sing  it  again  ! 

"  Now  list  to  the  second ;  I  caught  its  wild  tone 
As  I  roamed  through  the  dark,  stormy  midnight 

alone ; 
For  life  or  for  death,  we  must  battle,  we  twain; 
For  life  or  for  death — I  sing  it  again  !" 
192 


THE    THREE    SONGS 

Then  down  on  the  table  he  lays  his  harp. 

And    leap   from    the    scabbards   their   swords    so 

sharp ; 
And  long  they  fight,  in  the  sight  of  all. 
Till  the  King  falls  dead  in  the  lofty  hall. 

"  Now  I  sing  the  third  song ;  'tis  the  best  of  the 

three, 
Nor  soon  shall  its  music  grow  tiresome  to  me  ; 
In  his  own  red  blood  King  Siegfried  lies  slain, 
In  his  own  red  blood — I  sing  it  again  V 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  SAINT  GEOEGE 


Before  Saint  Stephen  of  Gormaz, 
Loud  the  brazen  trumpets  ring ; 
'Tis  where  Ferdinand  of  Castile 
Holds  his  camp,  the  valiant  king ! 

Almanzor,  the  Moorish  monarch, 
From  Cordova  hastening  down, 
With  a  mighty  host  is  marching. 
To  besiege  the  lo)^al  town  ; 

Armed  already,  firmly  mounted, 
Waits  the  proud  Castilian  band. 
While  through  all  the  ranks,  impatient. 
Rides  the  gallant  Ferdinand. 

'' Pascal  Vivas  !   Pascal  Vivas  ! 
Pride  of  all  the  knightly  race. 
Wherefore,  on  the  eve  of  battle, 
Art  thou  wanting  at  thy  place  ? 

Thou,  who  once  to  arm  wast  foremost ; 
Foremost  in  the  deadly  fray, 
Hear'st  thou  not  the  warlike  trumpet. 
And  the  battle-cry  to-day  ? 
194 


THE    KNIGHT    OF    SAINT    GEORGE 

While  the  Christian  ranks  are  fighting. 
Shall  they  vainly  seek  thine  aid  ? 
Shall  thy  well-won  trophies  wither. 
And  thy  laurels  droop  and  fade  ?" 
Pascal  Vivas  cannot  hear  him, 
In  the  distant  forest  glade  ; 
Where  Saint  George's  holy  chapel 
Stands  beneath  the  ancient  shade. 
At  the  gate  his  steed  is  waiting, 
There  his  spear  and  shield  recline, 
While  the  knight,  in  silence  kneeling, 
Prays  before  the  sacred  shrine  ; 
Buried  in  a  deep  devotion, 
Thinks  not  of  the  distant  war. 
As  its  rising  din  is  echoing 
Through  the  forest  depths  afar  ; 
Marks  not  now  his  steed's  loud  neighing. 
As  the  tumult  strikes  his  ears  ; 
But  Saint  George,  his  Patron,  watches. 
And  the  distant  battle  hears. 
From  the  clouds  the  Saint  descending 
Dons  the  armor  of  the  knight, 
Mounts  the  gallant  steed,  impatient, 
Hastens  onward  to  the  fight. 
Plashing  through  the  fray,  triumphant, 
As  the  lightning  from  the  sky, 
195 


UHLAND 

See,  he  grasps  Almanzor's  banner. 
And  the  Moorish  squadrons  fly  ! 

Pascal  Vivas'  prayers  are  ended, 
Now  he  seeks  the  cloister  gate, 
Where,  as  when  at  first  he  left  them, 
Steed,  and  spear,  and  armor  wait. 

Thoughtful  towards  the  camp  he  hastens. 
And  he  marvels  much  to  see 
That  they  come  with  shouts  to  greet  him, 
And  the  songs  of  victory  : 

"  Pascal  Vivas  !   Pascal  Vivas  ! 
Hail  to  Castile's  noblest  son. 
Welcome  to  the  valiant  victor 
Who  Almanzor's  banner  won  !" 

Pascal  Vivas  vainly  wonders. 
Fain  would  still  the  festive  cries. 
Humbly  bows  his  head  in  silence. 
Points  in  silence  to  the  skies  ! 


II 


In  her  bower  the  Donna  Julia 
Lingers  at  the  close  of  day; 
Fatiman,  Almanzor's  kinsman. 
Comes  and  bears  her  thence  away  I 
196 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  SAINT  GEORGE 

With  his  precious  booty  swiftly 

Through  the  forest  takes  his  flight. 
Ten  bold  Moorish  riders  with  him 
Follow,  armed  for  deadly  fight. 

On  the  second  morning,  early, 
Xow  they  gain  the  distant  glade. 
Where  Saint  George's  holy  chapel 
Stands  beneath  the  ancient  shade. 

In  the  distance,  through  the  forest. 
Well  the  sacred  shrine  is  known. 
By  the  Saint's  proud  form  and  lofty. 
Sculptured  in  the  solid  stone, 

As  of  old  he  fought  the  Dragon, 
Closing  in  the  fatal  shock, 
While  the  princess  waits  in  terror. 
Chained  upon  the  cruel  rock. 

Weej)ing,  and  her  fair  hands  wringing. 
Donna  Julia,  at  the  sight. 
Cries,  "  Saint  George,  thou  heavenly  warrior. 
Save  me  from  the  Dragon's  might !" 

See,  from  out  the  chapel  springing, 
On  his  steed  he  comes,  the  brave. 
In  the  breeze  his  locks  so  golden. 
And  his  crimson  mantle  wave. 

Fatal  is  his  spear's  encounter, 
Fatiman,  the  Kobber,  dies — 
197 


UHLAND 

As  of  old  the  slaughtered  Dragon, 

Bleeding  on  the  earth  he  lies ; 
And  his  ten  bold  Moorish  riders. 

With  a  sudden,  fearful  cry, 

Casting  shields  and  lances  from  them. 

Through  the  fatal  forest  fly. 
On  her  knees,  the  Donna  Julia 

Scarce  her  weeping  eyes  can  raise  ; 

^'Ah,  Saint  George  !  thou  valiant  saviour. 

Thine  forever  be  the  praise !" 
But  a  second  glance  she  ventures. 

And  though  fearful  still  and  faint. 

Strangest  sight  of  all  discovers, 

Pascal  Vivas  is  the  Saint ! 
198 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

Feom  ''Home  Poems" 

Printed  for  private  circulation,  1897 


SUNBEAM    AND    SHADOW 


Sunbeam  was  a  lovely  child,  her  face  was  bright 
as  day. 

Smiles  sparkled  in  her  clear  bine  eyes  and  in  her 
dimples  lay  ; 

Her  hands  were  always  ready  in  every  task  to 
aid, 

Or  join   the  merry  circle  where  happy  children 
played ; 

Her  little  feet  through  all  the   house   went   pat- 
tering along, 

With  music  in  her  ringing  laugh  and  in  her  Joy- 
ous song ; 

And  every   one  who  heard  her  would  bless  the 
child  and  say, 

"There  goes   our   precious   Sunbeam,  so  gentle, 
good,  and  gay." 

201 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 


II 


A  little  cousin  Sunbeam  had  and   Shadow   was 

her  name, 
Her  years  the  same  as   Sunbeam's  but  her  looks 

were  not  the  same ; 
She  wore  a  scowl  upon  her  brow,  I'm  sure  I  don't 

know  why. 
And  a  tear  was  always  standing  in  the  corner  of 

each  eye ; 
Her  cheeks   were    often  black  with   dirt,  except 

where  through  the  black 
The  trickling  tears  made  two  straight  lines  just 

like  a  railroad  track ; 
No  sunny  smile  would  ever  play  her  little   lips 

about. 
For  her  mouth  was  screwed  and  twisted  into  an 

angry  pout ; 
Her  hands  and  nails  were  very  like  a  baby  vul- 
ture's claws, 
And  apt  to  tear  and  scratch,  as  a  wild-cat's  ugly 

paws  ; 
Her   feet  went  scuffling  round  the  house   when 

work  was  to  be  done, 
But  led  her  into  mischief  as  fast  as  she  could  run. 
202 


SUNBEAM    AND    SHADOW 


III 

To    spend    a    week    with    Sunbeam    once    little 
Shadow  went, 

Her  clothes  all  washed  and  folded  in  a  new  trunk 
were  sent ; 

The    railroad   tracks    scrubbed  from   her  cheeks 
were  there  no  longer  seen, 

The  bird  claws  trimmed,  and  off  she  went,  look- 
ing for  once  quite  clean. 

Sweet  Sunbeam,  with  a  happy  smile,  stood  wait- 
ing at  the  door, 

But  Shadow  pushed   right  past  her  —  threw  her 
bonnet  on  the  floor, 

And  never   said  "Good-morning,"  or  gave  Sun- 
beam a  kiss — 

Now  did  you  ever  hear  of  so  rude  a  girl  as  this  ? 

Then  Sunbeam,  greatly  puzzled,  picked  the  bon- 
net up  herself. 

And  went   and  laid  it   carefully   upon    a   closet 
shelf. 

And  running  back  to  Shadow  said,  gently,  "  Come 
with  me 

To  see  my  nice  new  tea-set  and  you   shall  make 
the  tea, 

203 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

And  we  will  have  a  party,  dear  Shadow,  come 
and  play — " 

But  Shadow  scowled  and  pouted,  and  jerked  her- 
self away; 

Then  Sunbeam  caught  her  in  her  arms  and  said, 
"  I  think  you  might," 

While  Shadow  screamed,  ''You  hurt  me — what 
makes  you  squeeze  so  tight  ?" 

Then  Sunbeam  cried,  "Excuse  me,  and  now,  dear 
Shadow,  please, 

Just  put  your  arms  round  me  and  show  me  how 
to  squeeze." 

But  Shadow  rudely  pushed  her,  and  said,  "I 
won't — go  'way  !" 

So  Sunbeam  left  her  standing  and  went  alone  to 
play, 

And  Shadow  by  and  by  came  in  and  in  the  cor- 
ner sat. 

As  though  she  loved  the  dark,  like  a  blinking  owl 
or  bat. 

IV 

Just  then  an  organ  in  the  street  set  up  a  lively  air. 
Both  children    to    the  window  ran    and   climbed 
upon  a  chair. 

204 


SUNBEAM    AND    SHADOW 

Then  Sunbeam  said,  "  Now,  Shadow,  I'll  put  my 

arm  round  you, 
The  window  is  wide  open  and  you  might  tumble 

through," 
But  Shadow  twitched  herself  away,  and  oh,  how 

sad  to  tell ! 
She  slipped  and   lost  her  balance,  and  from  the 

window  fell. 
Sunbeam,  as   quick   as  lightning,  ran    down    the 

steps  and  found 
PoorlittleShadowlyingquitesenselessontheground. 
The  organ-grinder  brought  her  in  and  laid  her  on 

the  bed. 
While  Sunbeam  placed  the  pillow  about  her  aching 

head. 
Then    ran    for    nurse  and    mother    to   bind   the 

bruises  up, 
And  brought  her  cool  spring-water  in  her  own 

silver  cup. 
Long  hours  poor  Shadow  lay  without  the  strength 

to  speak. 
At  last  she  raised  herself,  kissed  Sunbeam  on  the 

cheek. 
And  said,  "  Oh,  dearest  Sunbeam,   Fve   been  so 

rude  and  wild. 
But  if  you  can  forgive  me  I  will  be  a  better  child." 
205 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

And  did  Sunbeam  forgive  her  ?    Oh,  yes,  she  did 

indeed, 
And  gently  songht  the  wayward  child  in  better 

ways  to  lead, 
To  keep  her  heart  and  hands  from  angry  temper 

free, 
To  love  the  loving  Saviour  and  seek  like  Him  to  be. 
So  Shadow  soon  grew  better,  the  dark  scowl  left 

her  face, 
And,  like  sunshine  after  rain,  sweet  smiles  came  in 

its  place. 
And  she  learned  to  love  dear  Sunbeam  with  all 

her  happy  heart. 
Till  they  grew  so  much  alike  they  could  scarce 

be  told  apart. 


So  when  her  visit  ended  and  Shadow  was  quite 
well, 

She  went  to  her  own  home  and  rang  the  front- 
door bell. 

The  nurse  came  running  down  the  stairs  and  said, 
'^Oh,  dear  !    Oh,  dear  ! 

That  hateful  Shadow  has   come  back,  I'm  sorry 
she  is  here." 

206 


SUNBEAM    AND    SHADOW 

But  as  she  opened  wide  the  door,  what  little  girl 

was  this 
Who  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  and  was  ready  with 

a  kiss  ? 
"Can  this  be  Shadow,  really,  who  is  standing  at 

the  door ; 
She  never  had  a  happy  face  or  a  pleasant  word 

before  ?" 
"Oh,  yes,  I'm  really  Shadow — that  is  my  name," 

said  she, 
"But  not  the  child  that  once  I  was,  as  all  the 

house  shall  see." 
So  she  gayly  tripped  up -stairs  and  they  hardly 

knew  her  there, 
Her   voice   had    grown   60    gentle,  her    face    had 

grown  so  fair. 
And  from  that  time  she  daily  grew  to  be  more 

sweet  and  mild, 
Till  every  one  rejoiced  in  heart  to  see  so  good  a 

child. 
And  she  and  little  Sunbeam  grew  up  the  best  of 

friends. 
Like  two  fair  flowers  together,  and  so  the  story 

ends. 

207 


"SOMEBODY" 

There's  a  meddlesome  ''Somebody"  going  abont. 
And  playing  his  pranks,   but  we  can't  find  him 

out ; 
He's  np-stairs  and  down-stairs  from  morning  till 

night, 
And  always  in  mischief,  but  never  in  sight. 

The  rogues  I  have  read  of  in  song  or  in  tale 
Are  caught  at  the  end,  and  conducted  to  jail ; 
But  "Somebody's"  tracks  are  all  covered  so  well 
He  never  has  seen  the  inside  of  a  cell. 

Our  young  folks  at  home  at  all  seasons  and  times 
Are  rehearsing  the  roll  of  "Somebody's"  crimes; 
Or  fast  as  their  feet  and  their  tongues  can  well  run, 
Come  to  tell  the  last  deed  the  sly  scamp  has  done. 

"'Somebody'  has  taken  my  knife,"  one  will  say; 
"'Somebody'  has  carried  my  pencil  away"; 
208 


"SOMEBODY" 

"'Somebody'  has  gone  and  thrown  down  all  the 

blocks"; 
*' 'Somebody'  ate  np  all  the  cakes  in  the  box." 

It  is  "Somebody "breaks  all  the  pitchers  and  plates. 
And  hides  the  boys'  sleds  and  runs  off  with  their 

skates. 
And  turns  on  the  water  and  tumbles  the  beds, 
And  steals  all  the  pins  and  melts  all  the  dolls'  heads. 

One  night  a  dull  sound,  like  the  thump  of  a  head, 
Announced  that  one  youngster  was  out  of  his  bed ; 
And  he  said,  half  asleep,  when  asked  what  it  meant, 
"'Somebody'  is  pushing  me  out  of  the  tent !" 

Now,  if  these  high  crimes  of  "Somebody"  don't 

cease, 
We  must  summon  in  the  detective  police ; 
And  they,  in  their  wisdom,  at  once  will  make  known 
The  culprit  belongs  to  no  house  but  our  own. 

And  should  it  turn  out  after  all  to  be  true 
That   our   young   folks    themselves   are   "  Some- 
body," too, 
How  queer  it  would  look  if  we  saw  them  all  go, 
Marched  off  to  the  station  -  house,  six  in  a  row ! 
o  309 


PSYCHE 

This  young  woman   is  Psyche,  of   whom  you've 

heard  tell, 
A  very  well-known  Mythological  belle, 
Whom  Cupid  was  sweet  on,  but  that  gay  young 

spark 
Never  paid  her  a  visit  except  in  the  dark ; 
Knowing   well    'twould   be    fatal   should   Psyche 

discover 
She,  a  poor  child  of  Earth,  had  a  god  for  a  lover ; 
But  Psyche,  much  wishing  to  see  and  be  seen. 
One  night  filled  her  lamp  with  the  best  kerosene. 
Then  lit  it  while   Cupid  was  napping  and  took 
"What  she  meant  for  a  sly,  introductory  look. 
But  the  beauty  celestial  which  burst  on  her  view 
Quite  upset  the  damsel — upset  her  lamp,  too — 
Cupid  didn't  ^'strike  oil,"  but  the  hot  oil  struck 

Cupid. 
He  awoke  with  a  start.     Psyche  cried,  "  Oh,  how 

stupid  ! 

210 


PSYCHE 

I  didn't  intend"— but  her  lover  had  vanished, 
And  all  her  bright  dreams   of   the   future    were 

banished. 
Still  that  glimpse  gave  an  image  that  Fate  could 

not  spoil ; 
She  had,  you  might  say,  Cupid's  portrait  in  oil ; 
On  that  image  she  lived  ;  over  mountain  and  plain 
Went  searching  for  Cupid,  but  searching  in  vain ; 
Not  in  city  or  country,  in  valley  or  grove, 
Could  she  find  the  least  trace  of  her  long  van- 

ished  love. 
Not  on  Earth  or  in  Time  was  the  vision  renewed, 
Tliough  so  earnestly  sought  and  so  sadly  pursued. 
Till  great  Jove,  looking  down  with  compassionate 

eye. 
Made  Psyche  immortal,  and  there,  in  the  sky. 
The  lover,  long  lost,  was  restored  to  her  sight, 
And   her   lamp    was  rekindled    in  heaven's   own 

light ! 

Now  our  fancies  at  once  to  plain  truth  to  recall, 
There  was  no  such  person  as  Psyche  at  all ; 
And  she  never  had  oil,  nor  a  lamp,  nor  a  lover. 
And  a  myth  and  a  fable  is  all  there  was  of  her ; 
So  by  this  bronze  figure  the  truth  you  may  reach, 
That  Psyche  herself  was  a  "figure  of  speech"! 
211 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

A  fair  type  of  the  sonl  in  its  human  estate, 

In   its  longings  and   struggles  with  Fortune  and 

Fate, 
Reflecting  the  mood  you  so  often  have  had, 
More  pensive  than  painful,  more  silent  than  sad. 
When  you  feel  that  the   soul  throbbing   there  in 

your  breast. 
Is  a  restless,  dissatisfied,  fugitive  guest. 


CORNELIA'S    REPLY 

CoRSTELiA,  a  matron  of  ancient  Rome, 
Was  busied  one  day  in  her  quiet  home. 
Ruling  the  house  with  her  firm,  gentle  rule, 
Her  husband  abroad,  and  her  boys  at  school, 
But  she,  in  her  manifold  toils  and  cares. 
Still  blending  her  joys  and  hopes  with  theirs. 

To  visit  Cornelia  that  day  there  came 
A  rich  Roman  lady  of  noble  name. 
Very  fair  she  was,  and  as  proud  as  fair. 
Queenly  her  bearing,  disdainful  her  air. 
Regal  her  robe,  each  soft  flowing  fold 
Lustrous  with  purple,  embroidered  with  gold ; 
Slaves  followed  her  steps  who  bore  in  their  hands 
Caskets  of  jewels  from  Orient  lands. 
Spoils  of  the  provinces,  glittering  gems 
Plucked  by  the  victors  from  kings'  diadems. 
These  royal  trophies  of  Rome's  proudest  day 
The  haughty  patrician  came  to  display. 
"Behold,"  she  exclaimed,  ''my  jewels  so  rare  I 
Cornelia,  what  have  you  with  them  to  compare  ?" 
213 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

Cornelia  gazed  on  the  dazzling  array; 

She  silently  gazed,  turned,  silent,  away. 

From    caskets    and   gems   her  quick    glance   had 

strayed 
To  the  inner  court  where  the  fountain  played, 
Whence  clear  on  her  listening  ear  there  fell 
Glad  tones  from  the  two  she  loved  so  well ; 
A  moment  more,  at  the  mother's  call, 
Together  they  entered  the  lofty  hall, 
The  youthful  Gracchi,  one  calm  and  sedate. 
The  shade  on  his  brow  of  his  future  fate. 
The  other  a  bold  and  a  joyous  youth. 
The  fire  in  his  eye  of  valor  and  truth. 
Embracing  them  both,  with  a  mother's  pride, 
"These  are  my  jeivels!"  Cornelia  replied. 

Dead  and  forgotten  this  many  a  day, 
The  rich  Eoman  lady  has  passed  away; 
Ages  have  rolled  o'er  Cornelia's  grave 
And  the  graves  of  the  Gracchi,  true  and  brave ; 
Living  to-day  is  Cornelia's  reply. 
Fresh  and  immortal,  it  never  can  die, 
Clear  as  a  diamond,  it  beams  on  our  sight, 
Cheering  our  souls  with  its  tranquil  light, 
A  light  not  of  Earth — a  ray  from  above, 
The  pure  quenchless  light  of  a  Mother's  love  ! 
214 


OLD    PONE 

My  grandfather  once  had  a  horse  that  was  known 
By  no  other  name  than  the  name  of  ''Old  Pone." 
His  coat  was  quite  rough  and  his  sides  were  quite 

bony, 
And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  he  was  an  old  pony. 

Old  Pone  loved  to  stand  in  the  stable  all  day. 
Very  quietly  munching  his  oats  and  hay. 
Or  out  in  the  field  to  roll  over  and  over. 
And  kick  up  his  heels  in  the  grass  and  the  clover. 

And  then  if  you  wanted  Old  Pone  for  a  ride. 
You  had  to  creep,  sl5'ly,  close  up  to  his  side, 
Then  out  with  the  halter  and  clap  his  head  in  it. 
Or  off  he  would  scamper  in  less  than  a  minute. 

But  when  you  had  caught  him,  how  still  he  would 

stand. 
And  rub  up  against  you  and  eat  from  your  hand, 
215 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

As  grave  as  a  judge,  just  as  sober  and  steady, 
Till  the  harness  was  on  and  the  chaise  was  all  ready. 

Then  when  all  were  seated  and  eager  to  go. 
Old  Pone  would  move  off  with  a  gait  very  slow ; 
As  much  as  to  say,  "  There  is  no  use  of  talking, 
Yon    think   you're    out    driving,   but   I   am    out 
walking" 

By  coaxing  and  scolding,  Old  Pone  could  be  got 
To  quicken  his  pace  to  a  kind  of  jog  trot, 
But  coaxing  or  scolding,  by  man  or  by  master, 
Were  utterly  useless  to  make  him  go  faster. 

Old  Pone  knew  the  roads,  North,  South,  East  and 

West, 
And  whenever  he  reached  the  road  he  liked  best. 
Because  the  most  level  and  shady  and  quiet, 
Down  that  he  would  turn   and    compel  you  to 

try  it. 

At  the  foot  of  each  hill,  he  made  a  dead  stop. 
Then  took  a  snail's  pace  and  crawled  to  the  top, 
Once  there,  what  a  puffing  and  panting  and  blow- 
ing, 
Like  a  live  locomotive — all  but  the  going! 
216 


OLD    PONE 

At  every  friend's  honse  to  the  gate  he  would  go, 
And  there  he  would  stand,  though  you  never  said 

^^Whoa," 
Rub  his  nose  on  the  post  as  if  he  would  kiss  it, 
And  wait  till  you  got  out  and  made  a  long  visit. 

Xo  matter  how  light  or  how  heavy  his  load. 
He  went  just  as  slow  every  inch  of  the  road, 
But  when  he  reached  home,  Old  Pone  was  quite 

able 
To  trot  pretty  fast  up  the  lane  to  the  stable  ! 


TOM   TWIST 

Tom  Twist  was  a  wonderful  fellow, 

No  boy  was  so  nimble  and  strong ; 
He  could  turn  ten  summersets  backward, 

And  stand  on  his  head  all  day  long ; 
No  wrestling,  or  leaping,  or  running, 

This  tough  little  urchin  could  tire ; 
His  muscles  were  all  gutta-percha. 

And  his  sinews  bundles  of  wire. 

Tom  Twist  liked  the  life  of  a  sailor, 

So  off,  with  a  hop  and  a  skip, 
He  went  to  a  Nantucket  captain. 

Who  took  him  on  board  of  his  ship  ; 
The  vessel  was  crowded  with  seamen, 

Young,  old,  stout  and  slim,  short  and  tall, 
But  in  climbing  and  swinging  and  Jumping, 

Tom  Twist  was  ahead  of  them  all. 
218 


TOM    TWIST 

He  could  scamper  all  through  the  rigging, 

As  spry  and  as  still  as  a  cat, 
While  as  for  a  jump  from  the  maintop 

To  deck,  he  thought  nothing  of  that ; 
He  danced  at  the  end  of  the  yard-arm. 

Slept  sound  in  the  bend  of  a  sail, 
And  hung  by  his  legs  from  the  bowsprit. 

When  the  wind  was  blowing  a  gale. 

The  vessel  went  down  in  a  tempest, 

A  thousand  fathoms  or  more, 
But  Tom  Twist  dived  under  the  breakers, 

And  swimming  five  miles  got  ashore  ; 
The  shore  was  a  cannibal  island. 

The  natives  were  hungry  enough, 
But  they  felt  of  Tommy  all  over, 

And  found  him  entirely  too  tough. 

So  they  put  him  into  a  boy-coop. 

Just  to  fatten  him  up,  you  see. 
But  Tommy  crept  out,  very  slyly, 

And  climbed  to  the  top  of  a  tree ; 
The  tree  was  the  nest  of  a  Condor, 

A  bird  with  prodigious  big  wings. 
Who  lived  upon  boa-constrictors. 

And  other  digestible  things. 
319 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

The  Condor  flew  home  in  the  evening, 

And  there  lay  friend  Tommy,  so  snug, 
She  thought  she  had  pounced  on  a  very 

Remarkable  species  of  bug ; 
She  soon  woke  him  up  with  her  pecking, 

But  Tommy  gave  one  of  his  springs. 
And  leaped  on  the  back  of  the  Condor, 

Between  her  long  neck  and  her  wings. 

The  Condor  tried  plunging  and  pitching. 

But  Tommy  held  on  with  firm  hand. 
Then  off,  with  a  scream,  flew  the  Condor, 

Over  forest  and  ocean  and  land ; 
By  and  by  she  got  tired  of  her  burden, 

And  flying  quite  close  to  the  ground, 
Tom  untwisted  his  legs  from  the  creature. 

And  quickly  slipped  off  with  a  bound. 

He  landed  all  right  and  feet  foremost, 

A  little  confused  by  his  fall. 
And  then  ascertained  he  had  lighted 

On  top  of  the  great  Chinese  AYall ; 
He  walked  to  the  City  of  Pekin 

Where  he  made  the  Chinamen  grin ; 
He  turned  ten  summersets  backward. 

And  they  made  him  a  Mandarin ! 
230 


TOM    TWIST 

Then  Tom  had  to  play  the  Celestial, 

And  to  dangle  a  long  pigtail, 
And  he  dined  on  puppies  and  kittens, 

Till  his  spirits  began  to  fail ,; 
Then  he  sighed  for  his  native  country. 

And  he  longed  for  its  ham  and  eggs. 
And  in  turning  summersets  backward 

His  pigtail  would  catch  in  his  legs. 

He  sailed  for  his  dear  home  and  harbor. 

The  house  of  his  mother  he  knew, 
He  climbed  up  the  lightning-rod  quickly. 

And  came  down  the  chimney-flue ; 
His  mother  in  slumber  lay  dreaming 

She  never  would  see  him  more, 
When  she  opened  her  eyes  and  Tommy 

Stood  there  on  the  bedroom  floor  ! 

Her  nightcap  flew  ofE  in  amazement. 

Her  hair  stood  on  end  with  surprise  ; 
"What  kind  of  a  ghost  or  a  spirit 

Is  this  that  I  see  with  my  eyes  ?" 
''I  am  your  most  dutiful  Tommy" — 

"I  will  not  believe  it,"  she  said, 
''Till  you  turn  ten  summersets  backward, 

And  stand  half  an  hour  on  your  head." 
221 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

''That  thing  I  will  do,  dearest  mother." 

At  once,  with  a  skip  and  a  hop, 
He  turned  the  ten  summersets  backward. 

But  then  was  unable  to  stop! 
The  tenth  took  him  out  of  the  window, 

His  mother  jumped  from  her  bed. 
To  see  his  twentieth  summerset 

Take  him  over  the  kitchen  shed. 

Then  over  the  patch  of  potatoes. 

And  beyond  the  church  on  the  hill. 
She  saw  him  tumbling  and  turning. 

Turning  and  tumbling  still ; 
Until  Tommy's  body  diminished 

In  size  to  the  head  of  a  pin. 
Spinning  away  in  the  distance. 

Where  it  still  continues  to  spin. 


DWAEF    AND    GIANT 

As  on  through  Life's  journey  we  go,  day  by  day. 
There  are  two  whom  we  meet  at  each  turn  of 

the  way. 
To  help  or  to  hinder — to  bless  or  to  ban, 
And  the  names  of  these  two  are   ''/  Can't"  and 

"I  Can!" 

'*/  Can't"  is  a  dwarf,  a  poor,  pale,  puny  imp. 
His  eyes  are  half  blind  and  his  walk  is  a  limp. 
He  stumbles  and  falls,  or  lies  writhing  in  fits. 
And  for  those  who  would  help  him  plants  snares 
and  digs  pits. 

"/  Can"  is  a  giant,  unbending  he  stands. 
There    is   strength   in  his  arms,  and  skill  in  his 

hands. 
He  asks  for  no  favors,  he  wants  but  a  share 
Where  labor  is  honest  and  wages  are  fair. 
323 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

"I  Can't"  is  a  sluggard,  too  lazy  to  work. 
From  duty  he  shrinks,  every  task  he  will  shirk. 
No  bread  on  his  board  and  no  meal  in  his  bag, 
His  hoase  is  a  rniu,  his  coat  is  a  rag. 

"I  Can"  is  a  worker,  he  tills  the  broad  fields. 
And  digs  from  the  Earth  all  the  wealth  which  it 

yields. 
The  hum  of  his  spindles  begins  with  the  light. 
And  the  fires  of  his  forges  are  blazing  all  night. 

"/  Can't"  is  a  coward,  half  fainting  with  fright. 
At   the  first  thought  of  peril   he   slinks   out   of 

sight. 
Skulks  and  hides  till  the  noise  of  the  battle  is 

past. 
Or  sells  his  best  friends  and  turns  traitor  at  last. 

"/  Can"  is  a  hero,  the  first  in  the  field, 
Though  others  may  falter,  he  never  will  yield, 
He  makes  the    long   marches,  he  deals  the  last 

blow. 
His  charge  is  the  whirlwind  that  scatters  the  foe. 

And  how  grandly  and  nobly  he  stands  to  his  trust, 

"When  roused  at  the  call  of  a  cause  that  is  just, 

234 


DWARF    AND    GIANT 

He  weds  his  strong  will  to  the  valor  of  yonth, 
And  writes  on  his  banners  the  watchword  of  Truth. 

Then  up  and  be  doing,  the  day  is  not  long, 
Throw  fear  to  the  winds,  be  patient  and  strong ; 
Stand  fast  in  your  place,  act  your  part  like  a  man. 
And  dare  for  the  Right  to  say  always,  "I  Can!" 


MISS  NOBODY'S  CHRISTMAS  DINNER 

One  might  travel  tliis  wide  world  over  and  over. 
And   a   house  like    Miss    Nobody's  nowhere   dis- 
cover ; 
It  could  never  be  seen  from  highway  or  hill. 
At  each  turn  of  the  road  'twas  invisible  still, 
People  said,  who  in  vain  had  endeavored  to  view 

it, 
No  driveway  nor  j^ath  could  be  found  leading  to 

it, 
Yet  had  these  same  people  but  once  been  inside 
What  marvellous   things   they   would  then  have 

descried  ! 
Things  past  all  description,  beyond  fancy's  flight. 
Or,  in  modern  vernacular,  quite  "  out  of  sight," 
Including  the  owner,  of  whom  all  agree 
That  only  herself  can  her  parallel  be. 

A  grand  Christmas  feast  did  this  fine  lady  plan 
To  gather  together  the  Nobody  clan, 
226 


MISS    NOBODY'S    CHRISTMAS    DINx\ER 

For  tlie  family  chart  when  fairly  imfnrled 
Reached  out  beyond  sea  and  all  over  the  world. 
It  really  became  an  Ilercnlean  task 
To  select  from  the  many  the  few  she  would  ask; 
Representative  men  they  must  certainly  be, 
And  the  answers  which  came  to  her  "  R.  8.  V.  P." 
Made  it  clear  in  advance  she  would  surely  be  able 
To  greet  the  best  Nobody  blood  at  her  table. 

Half-past  six  was  the  hour,  but  at  dinners  of  state 
The  more  honored  the  guest  the  more  he  comes 

late. 
And  here  as  the  guests,  in  their  own  estimation. 
Were  among  the  most  eminent  men  of  the  Nation, 
You  may  fancy  the  struggle  in  being  the  latest 
As  the  practical  test  of  who  was  the  greatest. 
Each  followed  the  other,  all  taking  good  care 
When  the  actual  dinner  was  served  to  be   there, 
And    when   round   her  board   she   saw  them   as- 
semble 
Her  startling  success  made  Miss  Nobody  tremble : 
If  you  choose  to  believe  me,  it  was  an  array 
Of  greatness  and  genius  not  seen  every  day, 
As  your  mind's   eye   may   test  by  surveying   the 

group 
Just  here  in  advance  of  the  oysters  and  soup. 
237 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

At  the  head  the  fair  hostess  herself  may  be  seen 

In  an  ideal  gown  of  invisible  green. 

Trimmed  with  softest  illusion  and  jewels  as  rare 

As  Fairy  Tale  princesses  once  used  to  wear ; 

At  her  right  the  real  family  head,  Father  Nil, 

In  spite  of  reverses  quite  jovial  still ; 

On  her   left   General  Cypher,  with  star  on  each 

shoulder, 
As  a  non-fighting  Brigadier  no  one  was  bolder ; 
Then  the  Right  Reverend  Vox-et-preterea-nihil, 
Whose  name  to  surmount  is  like  climbing  a  high 

hill ; 
That  stout  German  Baron,  the  head  of  his  house. 
Universally  known  as  Von  Nichts-kom-heraus. 
From  England  young  Nonsuch,  an  earl's  seventh 

son. 
Who  sailed  for  the  ''  States"  with  hat-box  and  gun. 
Equipped  for  wild  sport  in  the  Rockies  he  came. 
For  buffaloes,  bison,  and  other  small  game  ; 
From  France,  Prince  de  Rieu,  Parisian  true, 
And  with  him  his  nephew,  young  Count  Pas-de- 
tout  ; 
A  real  Roman  Prince,  Don  Nessuno  Niente, 
His  purse  rather  slim,  but  his  ancestors  plenty. 
Two  Irish  O'Noughts  were  there  in  full  force. 
With  valor  unflinching  attacking  each  course ; 
238 


MISS    NOBODY'S   CHRISTMAS   DINNER 

While  more  marked,  as  it  seemed,  than  bishop  or 

hero 
Was  that  cynical  scientist,  old  Doctor  Zero, 
An  open  agnostic  whose  teaching  all  tends 
To  engender  a  coolness  between  the  best  friends. 
And  who  with  his  sharp  pessimistic  persistence 
Would  freeze  out  the  life  from  all  things  in  ex- 
istence. 

Some   connections   by  marriage  your  glance   will 

comprise : 
Mr.  Unit,  for  instance,  whose  family  ties 
With  the  Cyphers  have  led  to  large  fortunes  and 

made 
Great  names  in  the  markets  of  finance  and  trade. 
Mr.   Sham,  the  political  boss,  by  whose  grace 
Some  Nobodies  crawl  into  high  power  and  place ; 
Doctor  Minus,  the  head  of  a  world-renowned  college. 
Whose  four  walls  encompass  all  manner  of  knowl- 
edge; 
Mr.  Bubble,  the  railway  contractor,  whose  schemes 
For  girdling  the  earth  are  the  wildest  of  dreams, 
Whose  career  is  a  paradox  past  understanding, 
Because  while  contracting  he  still  is  expanding, 
And  Mr.  Anonymous,  whom  you  may  guess, 
As  elsewhere,  so  here,  represented  the  Press; 
329 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

Occasions  like  this  Avere  the  height  of  his  glories. 
With  their  unending  gossip,  incredible  stories. 
State    secrets    which   no   one    more    deftly   could 

handle. 
And  last,  but  not  least,  inexhaustible  scandal. 

When  coffee  was  served  it  was  proper  that  each 
Of   the    prominent   guests    should    make   a   short 

speech  ; 
If  your  mind's  eye  could  see,  so  your  mind's  ear 

of  course 
Can  hear  every  word  of  the  brilliant  discourse. 
As  each  speaker  vied  with  the  others  to  raise 
His  glass  and  his  voice  in  the  fair  hostess'  praise. 
Father  Nil,  through  meanderings  more  or  less  dark, 
Traced  the  Nobody  pedigree  back  to  Noah's  Ark, 
And  claimed  as  their  own,  in  the  family  name. 
All   who   starting  with   nothing   reached  fortune 

and  fame  ; 
Bishop  Vox-et-preterea-nihil  was  prouder 
Than  ever  before  in  his  life  and  spoke  louder. 
Proclaiming  the  fact  that  in  spite  of  low  birth 
The  Nobodies  yet  should  possess  the  whole  earth ; 
Then  the   elder   O'Nought,  without  quitting  his 

chair. 
Said  he  sprang  to  his  feet  to  demand  a  full  share 
230 


MISS    NOBODY'S    CHRISTMAS    DINNER 

For  the  poor  Irish  branch  whom  all  could  behold 
In  himself  quite  destroyed  by  starvation  and  cold. 
General  Cypher  proposed  the  good  health  of  the 

Queen, 
And  of  all  the  crowned  heads  whose  subjects  were 

seen 
Round  Miss  Nobody's  board  in  the  sweep  of  his 

glance. 
Including  our  Sister  Republic  of  France. 
This  i^leased  the  whole  party,  while  Monsieur  Rien 
And  polite  Pas -de -tout   smiled  and   said,  ''Tres 

Men  r 
And  young  Nonsuch  whispered  his  neighbor  quite 

low, 
''  The  Queen  would  be  greatly  obliged,  don't  you 

know. " 
So,  with   clinking  of  glasses,  'midst   general  ap- 
plause 
The  toast  was  tossed  off :  then  after  a  pause 
"Who  should  rise  but  old  Zero  to  cast  such  a  chill 
As  threatened  the  ending  of  poor  Father  Nil, 
Who  shivered  and  shook,  and  Avould  surely  have 

died 

But  for  sundry  hot  potions  with  which  he  was  plied. 

All  the  same  Doctor  Zero  his  climaxes  wrought. 

And  sent  the  whole  universe  whirling  to  nought. 

331 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

Conld  Miss   Nobody's  gentle  response  have  been 

heard 
The  depths  of  each  heart  had  surely  been  stirred ; 
Inaudible  whispers,  a  voiceless  good-night. 
She  breathed   to  her  guests   and   vanished  from 

sight. 
Then  the  men  settled  down  to  the  sociable  weed, 
And  to  tell  their  old  stories  and  jokes  did  proceed ; 
And  when  the  clock  sounded  its  last  midnight 

stroke. 
Like  all  famous  dinners,  this  ended  in  smoke ; 
Round  faces  and  foreheads  the  dim  vapors  curled. 
An  emblem  too  true  of  this  make-believe  world. 


BUEIED    CITIES 

FATHER  CHARLES 

"No  paler  monk  than  Father  Charles,  and  none  so 

gaunt  or  lean, 
Since  monks  in  academic  air  or  cloister  walls  were 

seen; 
The  ravages  of  fatal  war  saw  many  dear  ones  fall. 
But  he  in  peace  and  at  our  side,  seemed  nearer 

death  than  all. 
An  ice-cold  hand  was  his,  drear  omen  of  decay ! 
The  best  of  brandy,  hottest  baths,  drove  not  that 

chill  away ; 
We  used  to  have  nice  dishes  cooked  to  tempt  his 

appetite, 
And  many  a  damsel  made  him  cake,  his  palate  to 

invite ; 
But  all  in  vain,  his  feeble  shape  kindred  to  death 

appeared. 
Beyond  comparison  he  failed,  his  eye  grew  wild 

and  bleared. 

233 


FOR    THE    CHILDREN 

After  his  daily  nap,  less  strength  and  less  he  got ; 
'Twas  not  advancing  age,  no,  all  his  years  had  not 
Rent  one  dark  hair  from   off  his  brow,  or  with 

maturing  gray, 
Spreading  his  tonsured  crown,  worn  his  thick  locks 

away  ; 
But  memory  bleeds    to    think  how   suddenly  he 

died — 
His  neck  when  we  fell  on,  ''Do  not  this  thing/* 

he  cried, 
"  To  duty  constant,  I  no  pleasure  ever  loved. 
Can't  one  poor  mortal  thus  a  real  saint  be  proved  ?" 
His  spirit,  loth  to  quit,  oft  flickered  ere  it  fled. 
At  last  his  pulse  met  Zero,  and  Father  Charles  was 

dead. 
He  had  a  monster  funeral,  the  Queen's  Town  Clerk 

came  down. 
Ordered  the  bells  to  toll  and  over  all  the  town 
They    rang,   both    old    and    new ;    burgher    and 

magistrate 
Came  crowding  where  in  old  St.  John's  his  body 

lay  in  state 
With  THiKTT  BURIED  CITIES  upon  hls  reverend 

pate. 


:notes  to  "obehammergau,"  isoo 

"A  trembling  vow  breathed  in  a  night  of  fears." — p.  91. 

"  The  Oberammergau  tradition  is  as  follows:  In  the  year 
1633  a  fearful  pestilence  broke  out  in  the  neighboring  vil- 
lages; so  fearful,  indeed,  it  was  thought  everybody  would 
die.  In  Kohlgrub,  distant  nine  miles  from  Ammergau,  so  great 
were  the  ravages  made  by  the  disease  that  only  two  married 
couples  were  left  in  the  village.  Notwithstanding  the  strict 
measures  taken  by  the  people  of  Ammergau  to  prevent  the 
plague  being  introduced  into  their  village,  a  day  laborer 
named  Caspar  Schuchler,  who  had  been  working  at  Eschcn- 
lohe,  where  the  plague  prevailed,  succeeded  in  entering  the 
village,  where  he  wished  to  visit  his  wife  and  children.  In 
a  day  or  two  he  was  a  corpse;  he  had  brought  with  him  the 
germs  of  the  disease,  which  spread  with  such  fearful  ra- 
pidity that,  within  the  following  thirty  three  days,  eighty- 
four  persons  belonging  to  the  village  died.  Then  the  vil- 
lagers, in  their  sad  trial,  assembled,  and  solemnly  vowed 
that,  if  God  would  take  away  the  pestilence,  they  would 
perform  the  Passion  Tragedy  in  thanksgiving  every  tenth 
year.  From  that  time  on,  although  a  number  of  persons 
were  suffering,  not  one  more  died  of  the  plague.  In  1634, 
the  play  was  lirst  performed.  The  decadal  period  was  chosen 
for  1680,  and  the  Passion  Play  has  been  enacted  every  tenth 
year,  with  various  interruptions,  since  that  time,"— John  P. 
Jackson,  Guide  to  the  Passion  Play,  1890. 
235 


NOTES   TO   "OBERAMMERGAU,"    1890 

"...   Where,  stern  and  lone. 
Rose  to  the  sky  his  rugged,  cross-tipped  cone." — p.  92. 

The  summit  of  Kofel  is  surmounted  by  a  colossal  cross. 

"  'If  they  want  to  remove  our  plaj','  said  Joseph  Mayer, 
'  they  must  remove  with  it  the  Kofelspitze  and  its  guarding 
cross.*  It  is  a  curious  accident  that  this  year  the  cross  was 
blown  down  and  has  just  been  renewed.  Some  of  the  vil- 
lagers see  in  this  accident  an  omen  that  the  Play  ought  no 
longer  to  be  continued;  and,  indeed,  it  is  said  that  some  of 
them  believe  that  they  have  had  a  heavenly  intimation  that 
henceforth  they  are  quit  of  their  olden  vow,  and  that  with 
this  year  the  public  decennial  repetition  of  the  Play  should 
cease  forever." — Akchdeacon  Farrar,  Tlie  Passion  Play  at 
Oberammergau,  1890. 

"Round  the  vast  theatre." — p.  93. 

The  present  theatre  has  been  built  after  a  design  and  under 
the  direction  of  Karl  Lautenschlager,  the  manager  and  in- 
ventor of  the  scenery  of  the  Royal  Theatre  in  Munich.  It  is 
built  in  great  part  of  wood,  with  a  solid  brick  building  in  the 
rear,  serving  for  practice  during  the  years  in  which  there  is 
no  Passion  Play.  The  auditorium  rises,  amphitheatrically, 
one  hundred  and  sixty-eight  feet  in  length,  by  one  hundred 
and  eighteen  feet  in  width,  and  accommodates  four  thousand 
persons.  About  a  third  part  of  this  space  is  under  cover. 
The  seats  are  so  arranged  that  every  spectator  easily  com- 
mands a  view  of  the  whole  stage.  Between  the  amphi- 
theatre and  the  stage  is  the  space  occupied  by  the  orchestra. 
Only  the  middle  part  of  the  stage  is  under  cover.  Within 
this  the  tableaux  are  given,  while  the  chorus  occupies  the 
open  stage  and  the  dramatic  scenes  are  enacted  on  all  its 
parts,  which  include,  on  either  side  of  the  central  stage,  a 
street  in  Jerusalem;  on  the  extreme  right,  the  house  of  Pilate, 
236 


NOTES    TO   "OBERAMMERGAU,"   1890 

and  on  the  extreme  left,  the  palace  of  the  High  Priest.  Be- 
yond the  theatre,  the  hills  rise  on  either  side,  affording 
glimp-'es  of  natural  scenery  which,  if  the  day  be  fair  and 
bright,  as  was  the  case  on  my  visit — August  17,  1890— great- 
ly enhance  the  interest  of  the  Play.  Hans  Christian  Ander- 
sen thus  narrates  his  experience  in  1860; 

"During  the  entire  representation  we  had  had  alternate 
rain  and  wind,  all  the  while  cloudy  weather;  but  by  chance, 
just  as  Christ  was  lowered  into  the  grave,  the  sun  broke 
forth  and  illumined  the  stage,  the  spectators,  the  whole  sur- 
rouuding.  Birds  sang  and  flew  here  and  there  over  us;  it 
was  a  moment  one  never  forgets." 

"  While  groups  symbolic  placed  before  tJie  mew." — p.  93. 

"  The  good  priest  Daisenberger,  instead  of  simply  setting 
forth  the  Gospel  story  as  it  stands  in  the  New  Testament, 
took  as  his  fundamental  idea  the  connection  of  the  Passion, 
incident  by  incident,  with  the  types,  figures,  and  prophecies 
of  the  Old  Testament.  The  whole  of  the  Old  Testament  is 
thus  made  as  it  were  the  massive  pedestal  for  the  Cross,  and 
the  course  of  the  narrative  of  the  Passion  is  perpetually  in- 
terrupted or  illustrated  by  scenes  from  the  older  Bible,  which 
are  supposed  to  prefigure  the  next  event  to  be  represented 
on  the  stage.  Thus,  inDaisenberger's  words,  'The  represen- 
tation of  the  Passion  is  arranged  and  performed  on  the  basis 
of  the  entire  Scriptures.'" — W.  F.  Stead,  in  the  Review  of 
Eeviews,  July,  1890. 

The  tableaux,  of  which  there  are  in  all  twenty-three,  begin 
with  "  The  Fall  of  Man  and  the  Expulsion  of  Adam  and  Eve 
from  the  Garden  of  Eden,"  followed  by  "The  Adoration  of 
the  Cross."  These  precede  the  opening  scene  of  the  Play. 
The  tableaux  which  follow  are:  "  The  Conspiracy  of  Joseph's 
Brethren  " — typical  of  the  plot  in  the  Sanhedrim ;  "  The  De- 
237 


NOTES   TO   "OBERAMMERGAU,"  1890 

parture  of  Tobias  "  (the  only  incident  taken  from  the  Apoc- 
rypha), and  "The  Bride  in  the  Song  of  Solomon  lamenting 
her  lost  Bridegroom  " — both  preceding  the  parting  at  Bethany ; 
"  The  Rejection  of  Vashti  " — typifying  the  doom  of  Jerusa- 
lem; "The  Gathering  of  the  Manna;"  "The  Grapes  of 
Eschol "—symbolizing  the  Bread  and  Wine;  "The  Sale  of 
Joseph  by  his  Brethren  " — foreshadowing  the  price  paid  to 
Judas  for  the  betrayal;  "Adam  tilling  the  Ground  in  the 
Sweat  of  his  Brow  " — prefiguring  the  Agony  of  Gethsemane; 
"  Joab's  Assassination  of  Amasa "  —  showing  forth  the 
treachery  of  Judas;  "  Micaiah  Rebuking  the  False  Prophet," 
"Naboth  Stoned  to  Death,"  "The  Sufferings  of  Job" — all 
typical  of  the  Saviour's  sufferings  at  the  hands  of  the  Chief 
Priests;  "Cain's  Remorse  after  Killing  Abel"  —  preceding 
the  suicide  of  Judas;  "Daniel  accused  before  Darius" — 
Christ  before  Pilate ;  "  Samson  a  Sport  to  the  Philistines  " — 
Christ  before  Herod.  The  remaining  tableaux,  "Joseph's 
Bloody  Coat  brought  to  Jacob,"  "The  Sacrifice  of  Isaac,"  "Jo- 
seph's Elevation  in  Egypt,"  "  The  Scapegoat  in  the  Wilder- 
ness, "  "  Isaac  bearing  the  Wood  on  Mount  Moriah, "  "Moses  El- 
evating the  Brazen  Serpent,"  and  "The  Healing  of  those  who 
Looked  Upon  It,"  are  all  typical  of  the  various  closing  scenes 
of  the  Passion  and  the  efficacy  of  the  sacrifice  of  the  Messiah. 
"These  tableaux  call  into  requisition  the  services  of  a 
multitude  of  the  villagers,  so  that  there  are  sometimes  three 
or  four  hundred  persons  on  the  stage.  There  is  not  one  of 
the  scenes  which  is  not  effectively  set  forth,  and  it  is  wonder- 
ful to  observe  how  absolutely  motionless  are  all  the  assembled 
figures,  even  the  youngest  children,  during  the  moment  or 
two  that  each  tableaux  remains  visible.  Whatever  mind 
and  taste  may  have  presided  over  tliese  scenes,  the  grouping 
of  the  actors  and  the  harmonious  blending  of  the  colors  is  a 
triumph  of  artless  art." — Archdeacon  Farrar,  The  Passion 
Play  at  Oberammergau,  1890. 

238 


NOTES   TO   "OBERAMMERGAU,"   1890 

"And  yet  tJiese  peasant  actors,  undismayed. 

In  loftier  parts  than  Shakespeare  drew  have  played." — p.  105. 

The  cast  of  performers  in  1890  was  as  follows:  Christus, 
Joseph  Mayer;  Peter,  Jacob  Ilett  (these  two  took  the  same 
characters  in  1871  and  1880);  John,  Peter  Rendl;  Caiaphas, 
JohannLang,  Sr.;  Nathaniel,  Sebastian  Lang;  Pilate,  Thomas 
Rendl  (these  three  played  the  same  parts  in  1880);  Mary, 
Rosa  Lang;  Mary  Magdalene,  Araalia  Deschler;  Martha, 
Helena  Lang;  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  MarkOppenrieder;  Nico- 
demus,  Franz  Steinbacher;  Annas,  Franz  Ratz,  Sr. ;  Rabbi 
Archelaus,  Sebastian  Bauer;  Judas,  Johann  Zwink;  Herod, 
Johann  Diemer  (he  was  the  Choragus  of  1880);  Prologus, 
Jacob  Rutz.  "In  1870  and  1880  the  Judas  was  played  by 
Gregor  Lechner,  whose  performance  was  considered  master- 
ly. It  resulted  in  an  unconscious  shrinking  from  him  on  the 
part  of  the  villagers  after  the  performances — a  tribute  to  his 
powers  which  was  very  unwelcome  to  him.  Johann  Zwink, 
the  new  impersonator  of  this  part,  is,  as  was  also  his  prede- 
cessor, a  wood-carver.  Mayer,  Hett,  and  Lechner  are,  or 
were,  all  wood-carvers.  Johann  Lang  is  a  village  merchant 
and  its  burgomaster.  He  is  also  the  stage-manager." — J.  H. 
Hervey,  in  the  Christian  Union,  New  York,  June  19,  1890. 

"  One  master  spirit  shines  above  the  rest." — p.  106. 

Daisenberger,  whose  name  is  indissolubly  linked  with  the 
Passion  Play,  was  the  son  of  a  peasant  of  Oberau,  and  for 
more  than  thirty-five  years  the  pastor  and  "  Geistlicher  Rath" 
of  Oberammergau.  His  published  works  include  a  volume 
of  sermons,  entitled.  The  Fruits  of  Observations  on  the  Passion, 
and  numerous  Biblical  and  historical  plays,  and  a  translation 
of  "Antigone"  from  the  Greek  for  the  Ammergau  actors. 
He  modelled  the  chorus  of  the  Passion  Pi  ay  after  the  Greek 
drama.  The  results  of  his  patient  instruction  of  the  people 
239 


NOTES   TO   "OBERAMMERGAU,"    1890 

are  apparent  throughout  their  performance  of  the  play.  A 
monument  to  his  memory,  surmounted  by  his  bust,  stands 
in  the  church-yard  at  the  eastern  entrance  to  the  church. 

"  See  where  apart,  in  mountain  wilds  of  Spain, 
One  lonely  tribe  in  all  the  world  retain." — p.  106. 

The  Basques,  a  people  inhabiting  the  northern  provinces  of 
Spain,  adjacent  to  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  peculiar  in  manners 
and  customs,  enjoying  political  privileges  entirely  distinct 
from  the  other  provinces,  and  speaking  a  language  which 
differs  from  all  the  Indo-European  and  Semitic  tongues. 

"  .  .  .  And  shall  it  be 
This  decade  ends  iJie  Passion  Mystery?"—^.  107. 

The  question  of  the  further  performance  of  the  Passion 
Play  has  been  much  discussed.  The  making  of  Oberammer- 
gau  a  world  centre  has  necessarily  made  it  a  centre  of  world- 
liness.  The  vast  influx  of  strangers  brings  with  it  a  crowd 
of  dealers  in  merchandise  and  keepers  of  booths,  as  at  the 
great  fairs  held  in  Continental  capitals,  and  it  is  a  serious 
question  whether  these  conditions  will  not  impair  the  re- 
ligious character  of  the  performance.  As  yet  they  have  not 
perceptibly  lowered  the  high  standard  of  religious  feeling 
which  has  been  successfully  maintained. 

"  If  the  Passion  Play  is  given  up,  it  will  be  the  subject  of 
considerable  regret,  both  to  tlie  dramatist  and  the  anti- 
quarian, and  it  will  be  a  distinct  loss  to  the  Church.  If 
each  time  we  say  the  Creed  we  are  witnessing  to  Jesus  Christ 
in  the  face  of  an  unbelieving  world,  how  much  more  is  such 
a  laborious  and  elaborate  undertaking  as  this  play  a  testi- 
mony to  the  saving  truths  of  the  Gospel?  When  the  love  of 
many  is  '  waxing  cold,'  it  is  a  great  stimulus  to  faith  to  know 
that  in  one  spot  in  the  world  the  great  joy  of  the  inhabitants 
for  generations  has  centred  round  the  central  fact  of  Christi- 
240 


NOTES    TO    "OBEllAMMERGAU,"    1890 

auity.  "VVe  caa  hardly  conceive  -what  would  be  the  effect 
on  these  people  if  they  were  forbiddeu  to  act.  Their  re- 
liiriou3  life  has  adopted  this  peculiar  form  for  the  expression 
of  its  devotion,  and  there  may  be  dangers  even  greater  than 
those  of  covetousness  and  want  of  simplicity  if  it  is  rudely 
lorn  from  them."— Rev.  F.  A.  G.  Eicubaum,  The  Country 
Parson  at  Oberammergau,  1890. 


THE    END 


m 


Ml8827Ji 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


